THERE  is  an  especial  debt  of  gratitude] 
we  owe  to  Jean  Henri  Fabre.    Not  on 
we  to  thank  him  for  his  great  scienti 
which  has  extraordinarily  enriched  man's 
edge  of  the  insect  world,  but  we  have  to  thai 
foe  making  this  precious  store  accessible 
of  us. 

Fabre  is  a  phenomenon  in  the  world  of  Science. 
He  has  been  called  "the  insect's  Homer."  He  is  a 
great  writer  and  his  books  are  literary  as  well  as 
scientific  masterpieces.  Rarely  is  this  happy 
fusion  attained. 

It  is  a  pleasure  therefore  to  add  "The  Life  of  the 
Caterpillar"  —  one  of  his  most  characteristic 
works — to  the  Modern  Library.  It  tells  the  strange 
story  of  the  most  crucial  and  adventurous  period 
in  the  life  of  our  most  beautiful  flying  insects — the 
caterpillar  stage. 


Ex  IJJiris 


. 


The  -publishers  will  be  'pleased  to  send^  upon  re- 
quest,  an  illustrated  catalogue  setting  forth  the 
-purpose  and  ideals  of  The  Modern  Library ,  and 
describing  in  detail  each  volume  in  the  series. 
QEvery  reader  of  books  will  find  titles  he  has  been 
looking  for •,  attractively  printed,  and 
ai  an  unusually  low  •price 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE 
CATERPILLAR 

J.  HENRI  FABRE 

TRANSLATED  BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA   DE   MATTOS 

FELLOW  OF  THE  ZOOLOGICAL  SOCIETY  OF  LONDON 


INTRODUCTION    BY 

ROYAL  DIXON 


JL     "" 


THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 


PUBLISHERS  ::  ::  NEW    YORK 


Manufactured  in  the  United  States  of  America 
for  The  Modern  Library,  Inc.,  by  H.  Wolff 


ra 


CONTENTS 


TRA1 

CHAPT 

^SLATOR'S  NOTF 

PAOK 

5 
s 

Ell 

I 

THE    PINE    PROCESSIONARY:    LAY- 

ING   THE    EGGS           .... 

9  ^OT^~ 

II 

THE  PINE  PROCESSIONARY:  THE* 
NEST;  THE  COMMUNITY    , 

*7xA 

III 

THE  PINE  PROCESSIONARY:   THE 
PROCESSION      

56  V 

IV 

THE    PINE    PROCESSIONARY:    ME- 
TEOROLOGY          

90  \/ 

V 

VI 

THE    PINE    PROCESSIONARY:    THE 
MOTH     

THE    PINE    PROCESSIONARY:    THE 
STINGING    POWER     .... 

in  y 

I28K 

VII 
VIII 

THE  ARBUTUS   CATERPILLAR 
AN    INSECT    VIRUS        .        .         .        . 

*5<>        s* 
i6i\S 

IX 

THE    PSYCHES:    THE    LAYING 

1  86 

X 

THE    PSYCHES:    THE    CASES     . 

217        / 

XI     THE    GREAT    PEACOCK 

5 


Contents 


XII     THE    BANDED  MONK 279 

XIII  THE    SENSE   OF   SMELL       .        .         .  300 , 

XIV  THE    CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR          .  33  H 

INDEX   . 373 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

THIS,  the  sixth  volume  of  the  Collected 
Edition  of  Fabre's  '  Entomological 
Works  in  English,  is  the  first  that  I  am  pre- 
paring for  publication  since  the  author's 
death,  on  the  nth  of  October,  1915,  at  an 
exceedingly  advanced  age.  It  contains  all  the 
essays,  fourteen  in  number,  which  he  wrote 
on  Butterflies  and  Moths,  or  their  caterpil- 
lars. 

Three  of  these,  the  chapters  entitled  The 
Great  Peacock,  The  Banded  Monk  and  The 
Sense  of  Smell,  are  included  under  the  titles 
of  The  Great  Peacock,  The  Oak  Eggar  and 
A  Truffle-hunter:  the  Bolboceras  Gallicus  in 
a  volume  of  miscellaneous  extracts  from  the 
Souvenirs  entomologiques  translated  by  Mr. 
Bernard  Miall  and  published  by  the  Century 
Company.  The  volume  in  question  is  named 
Social  Life  in  the  Insect  World;  and  I 
strongly  recommend  it  to  the  reader,  if  only 
because  of  the  excellent  photographs  from 
nature  with  which  it  is  illustrated. 

Chapter  III.  of  the  present  volume,  The 
Pine  Pro cessio nary:  the  Procession,  has  ap- 


Translator's  Note 

peared  in  the  Fortnightly  Review;  and  Chap- 
ter XIV.,  The  Cabbage  Caterpillar ,  the  last 
essay  but  one  from  the  author's  pen,  written, 
1  believe,  within  two  or  three  years  of  his 
death,  was  first  printed  in  the  Century  Maga- 
zine, some  time  before  its  publication  in  the 
original.  It  does  not  form  part  of  the  Sou- 
venirs entotnologiques.  The  remaining  es- 
says are  new  in  their  English  guise. 

Once  more  I  wish  to  record  my  gratitude 
to  Miss  Frances  Rodwell  for  the  faithful  as- 
sistance which  she  lias  lent  me  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  this  volume,  as  in  that  of  all  the  earlier 
volumes  of  the  series. 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS. 
CHELSEA,  1916, 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  PINE  PROCESSIONARY :  THE  EGGS 
AND  THE   HATCHING 

THIS  caterpillar  has  already  had  his  story 
told  by  Reaumur,1  but  it  was  a  story 
marked  by  gaps.  These  were  inevitable  in 
the  conditions  under  which  the  great  man 
worked,  for  he  had  to  receive  all  his  mate- 
rials by  barge  from  the  distant  Bordeaux 
Landes.  The  transplanted  insect  could  not  be 
expected  to  furnish  its  biographer  with  other 
than  fragmentary  evidence,  very  weak  in  those 
biological  details  which  form  the  principal 
charm  of  entomology.  To  study  the  habits 
of  insects  one  must  observe  them  long  and 
closely  on  their  native  heath,  so  to  speak,  in 
the  place  where  their  instincts  have  full  and 
natural  play. 

With  caterpillars  foreign  to  the  Paris  cli- 
mate and  brought  from  the  other  end  of 
France,  Reaumur  therefore  ran  the  risk  of 

1Rene  Antoine  Ferchault  de  Reaumur  (1683-1757), 
inventor  of  the  Reaumur  thermometer  and  author  of 
Memoir  es  pour  servir  a  I'histoire  naturelle  des  insect  es. 
—Translator's  Note. 

9 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

missing  many  most  interesting  facts.  This  is 
what  actually  happened,  just  as  it  did  on  a 
later  occasion  in  the  case  of  another  alien,  the 
Cicada.1  Nevertheless,  the  information  which 
he  was  able  to  extract  from  a  few  nests  sent 
to  him  from  the  Landes  is  of  the  highest 
value. 

Better  served  than  he  by  circumstances,  I 
will  take  up  afresh  the  story  of  the  Proces- 
lonary  Caterpillar  of  the  Pine.  If  the  subject 
does  not  come  up  to  my  hopes,  it  will  certainly 
not  be  for  lack  of  materials.  In  my  harmas2 
laboratory,  now  stocked  with  a  few  trees  in 
addition  to  its  bushes,  stand  some  vigorous 
fir-trees,  the  Aleppo  pine  and  the  black  Aus- 
trian pine,  a  substitute  for  that  of  the  Landes. 
Every  .year  the  caterpillar  takes  possession  of 
them  and  spins  his  great  purses  in  their 
branches.  In  the  interest  of  the  leaves,  which 
are  horribly  ravaged,  as  though  there  had 
been  a  fire,  I  am  obliged  each  winter  to  make 

*For  the  Cicada  or  Cigalc,  an  insect  remotely  akin 
to  the  Grasshopper  and  found  more  particularly  in  the 
south  of  France,  cf.  Social  Life  in  the  Insect  World,  by 
J.  H.  Fabre,  translated  by  Bernard  Miall :  chaps,  i  to  iv. 
—Translator's  Note. 

2The  harmas  was  the  enclosed  piece  of  waste  ground 
in  which  the  author  used  to  study  his  insects  in  their 
natural  state.— Translator's  Note. 


The  Processionary:  the  Eggs 

a  strict  survey  and  to  extirpate  the  nests  with 
a  long  forked  batten. 

You  voracious  little  creatures,  if  I  let  you 
have  your  way,  I  should  soon  be  robbed  of 
the  murmur  of  my  once  so  leafy  pines!  To- 
day I  will  seek  compensation  for  all  the 
trouble  I  have  taken.  Let  us  make  a  com- 
pact. You  have  a  story  to  tell.  Tell  it  me; 
and  for  a  year,  for  two  years  or  longer,  until 
I  know  more  or  less  all  about  it,  I  shall  leave 
you  undisturbed,  even  at  the  cost  of  lament- 
able suffering  to  the  pines. 

Having  concluded  the  treaty  and  left  the 
caterpillars  in  peace,  I  soon  have  abundant 
material  for  my  observations.  In  return  for 
my  indulgence  I  get  some  thirty  nests  within 
a  few  steps  of  my  door.  If  the  collection 
were  not  large  enough,  the  pine-trees  in  the 
neighbourhood  would  supply  me  with  any 
necessary  additions.  But  I  have  a  preference 
and  a  decided  preference  for  the  population 
of  my  own  enclosure,  whose  nocturnal  habits 
are  much  easier  to  observe  by  lantern-light. 
With  such  treasures  daily  before  my  eyes,  at 
any  time  that  I  wish  and  under  natural  con- 
ditions, I  cannot  fail  to  see  the  Processionary's 
story  unfolded  at  full  length.  Let  us  try. 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

And  first  of  all  the  egg,  which  Reaumur 
did  not  see.  In  the  first  fortnight  of  August, 
let  us  inspect  the  lower  branches  of  the  pines, 
on  a  level  with  our  eyes.  If  we  pay  the  least 
attention,  we  soon  discover,  here  and  there, 
on  the  foliage,  certain  little  whitish  cylinders 
spotting  the  dark  green.  These  are  the 
Bombyx'  eggs:  each  cylinder  is  the  cluster  laid 
by  one  mother. 

The  pine-needles  are  grouped  in  twos. 
Each  pair  is  wrapped  at  its  base  in  a  cylindri- 
cal muff  which  measures  about  an  inch  long 
by  a  fifth  or  sixth  of  an  inch  wide.  This 
muff,  which  has  a  silky  appearance  and  is 
white  slightly  tinted  with  russet,  is  covered 
with  scales  that  overlap  after  the  manner  of 
the  tiles  on  a  roof;  and  yet  their  arrange- 
ment, though  fairly  regular,  is  by  no  means 
geometrical.  The  general  aspect  is  more  or 
less  that  of  an  immature  walnut-catkin. 

The  scales  are  almost  oval  in  form,  semi- 
trar»sparent  and  white,  with  a  touch  of  brown 
at  the  base  and  of  russet  at  the  tip.  They 
are  free  at  the  lower  end,  which  tapers 
slightly,  but  firmly  fixed  at  the  upper  end, 
which  is  wider  and  blunter.  You  cannot  de- 
tach them  either  by  blowing  on  them  or  by 
12 


The  Processionary:  the 

rubbing  them  repeatedly  with  a  hair-pencil. 
They  stand  up,  like  a  fleece  stroked  the  wrong 
way,  if  the  sheath  is  rubbed  gently  upwards, 
and  retain  this  bristling  position  indefinitely; 
they  resume  their  original  arrangement  when 
the  friction  is  in  the  opposite  direction.  At 
the  same  time,  they  are  as  soft  as  velvet  to 
the  touch.  Carefully  laid  one  upon  the 
other,  they  form  a  roof  that  protects  the 
eggs.  It  is  impossible  for  a  drop  of  rain 
or  dew  to  penetrate  under  this  shelter  of  soft 
tiles. 

The  origin  of  this  defensive  covering  is 
self-evident:  the  mother  has  stripped  a  part 
of  her  body  to  protect  her  eggs.  Like  the 
Eider-duck,  she  has  made  a  warm  overcoat 
for  them  out  of  her  own  down.  Reaumur 
had  already  suspected  as  much  from  a  very 
curious  peculiarity  of  the  Moth.  Let  me 
quote  the  passage : 

"The  females,"  he  says,  "have  a  shiny 
patch  on  the  upper  part  of  their  body,  near 
the  hind-quarters.  The  shape  and  gloss  of 
this  disk  attracted  my  attention  the  first  time 
that  I  saw  it.  I  was  holding  a  pin,  with  which 
I  touched  it,  to  examine  its  structure.  The 
13 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

contact  of  the  pin  produced  a  little  spectacle 
that  surprised  me :  I  saw  a  cloud  of  tiny 
spangles  at  once  detach  themselves.  These 
spangles  scattered  in  every  direction :  some 
seemed  to  be  shot  into  the  air,  others  to  the 
sides;  but  the  greater  part  of  the  cloud  fell 
softly  to  the  ground. 

"Each  of  those  bodies  which  I  am  calling 
spangles  is  an  extremely  slender  lamina,  bear- 
ing some  resemblance  to  the  atoms  of  dust 
on  the  Moths'  wings,  but  of  course  much  big- 
ger. .  .  .  The  disk  that  is  so  noticeable  on 
the  hind-quarters  of  these  Moths  is  there- 
fore a  heap — and  an  enormous  heap — of 
these  scales.  .  .  .  The  females  seem  to  use 
them  to  wrap  their  eggs  in;  but  the  Moths  of 
the  Pine  Caterpillar  refused  to  lay  while  in  my 
charge  and  consequently  did  not  enlighten  me 
as  to  whether  they  use  the  scales  to  cover 
their  eggs  or  as  to  what  they  are  doing  with 
all  those  scales  gathered  round  their  hinder 
part,  which  were  not  given  them  and  placed 
in  that  position  to  serve  no  purpose." 

You  were  right,  my  learned  master:  that 
dense  and  regular  crop  of  spangles  did  not 
grow  on  the  Moth's  tail  for  nothing.  Is 

14 


The  Proeessionary:  the  Eggs 

there  anything  that  has  no  object?  You  did 
not  think  so;  I  do  not  think  so  either.  Every- 
thing has  its  reason  for  existing.  Yes,  you 
were  well-inspired  when  you  foresaw  that  the 
cloud  of  scales  which  flew  out  under  the  point 
of  your  pin  must  serve  to  protect  the  eggs. 

I  remove  the  scaly  fleece  with  my  pincers 
and,  as  I  expected,  the  eggs  appear,  looking 
like  little  white-enamel  beads.  Clustering 
closely  together,  they  make  nine  longitudinal 
rows.  In  one  of  these  rows  I  count  thirty- 
five  eggs.  As  the  nine  rows  are  very  nearly 
alike,  the  contents  of  the  cylinder  amount  in 
all  to  about  three  hundred  eggs,  a  respectable 
family  for  one  mother! 

The  eggs  of  one  row  or  file  alternate 
exactly  with  those  in  the  two  adjoining  files, 
so  as  to  leave  no  empty  spaces.  They  sug- 
gest a  piece  of  bead-work  produced  with  ex- 
quisite dexterity  by  patient  fingers.  It  would 
be  more  correct  still  to  compare  them  with 
a  cob  of  Indian  corn,  with  its  neat  rows  of 
seeds,  but  a  greatly  reduced  cob,  the  tininess 
of  whose  dimensions  makes  its  mathematical 
precision  all  the  more  remarkable.  The 
grains  of  the  Moth's  spike  have  a  slight  tend- 
ency to  be  hexagonal,  because  of  their  mu- 

15 


The  Life  of  tne  Caterpillar 

tual  pressure;  they  are  stuck  close  together, 
so  much  so  that  they  cannot  be  separated.  If 
force  is  used,  the  layer  comes  off  the  leaf 
in  fragments,  in  small  cakes  always  consisting 
of  several  eggs  apiece.  The  beads  laid  are 
therefore  fastened  together  by  a  glutinous 
varnish;  and  it  is  on  this  varnish  that  the 
broad  base  of  the  defensive  scales  is  fixed. 

It  would  be  interesting,  if  a  favourable 
opportunity  occurred,  to  see  how  the  mother 
achieves  that  beautifully  regular  arrangement 
of  the  eggs  and  also  how,  as  soon  as  she  has 
laid  one,  all  sticky  with  varnish,  she  makes  a 
roof  for  it  with  a  few  scales  removed  one 
by  one  from  her  hind-quarters.  For  the 
moment,  the  very  structure  of  the  finished 
work  tells  us  the  course  of  the  procedure.  It 
is  evident  that  the  eggs  are  not  laid  in  longi- 
tudinal files,  but  in  circular  rows,  in  rings, 
which  lie  one  above  the  other,  alternating 
their  grains.  The  laying  begins  at  the  bot- 
tom, near  the  lower  end  of  the  double  pine- 
leaf;  it  finishes  at  the  top.  The  first  eggs  in 
order  of  date  are  those  of  the  bottom  ring; 
the  last  are  those  of  the  top  ring.  The  ar- 
rangement of  the  scales,  all  in  a  longitudinal 
direction  and  attached  by  the  end  facing  the 
16 


The  Processionaryj  the  Eggs 

top  of  the  leaf,  makes  any  other  method  of 
progression  inadmissible. 

Let  us  consider  in  the  light  of  reflection 
the  elegant  edifice  now  before  our  eyes. 
Young  or  old,  cultured  or  ignorant,  we  shall 
all,  on  seeing  the  Bombyx'  pretty  little  spike, 
exclaim: 

"How  handsome!" 

And  what  will  strike  us  most  will  be  not 
the  beautiful  enamel  pearls,  but  the  way  in 
which  they  are  put  together  with  such  geome- 
trical regularity.  Whence  we  can  draw  a  great 
moral,  to  wit,  that  an  exquisite  order  governs 
the  work  of  a 'creature  without  consciousness, 
one  of  the  humblest  of  the  humble.  A  paltry 
Moth  follows  the  harmonious  laws  of  order. 

If  Micromegas1  took  it  into  his  head  to 
leave  Sirius  once  more  and  visit  our  planet, 
would  he  find  anything  to  admire  among  us? 
Voltaire  shows  him  to  us  using  one  of  the 
diamonds  of  his  necklace  as  a  magnifying- 
glass  in  order  to  obtain  some  sort  of  view  of 
the  three-master  which  has  run  aground  on 
his  thumb-nail.  He  enters  into  conversation 


JThe  eponymous  hero  of  Voltaire's  story  of  "the  little 
great  man,"  published  in  1752  in  imitation  of  Gulliver's 
Travels. — Translator's  Note. 

17 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

with  the  crew.  A  nail-paring,  curved  like  a 
horn,  encompasses  the  ship  and  serves  as  a 
speaking-trumpet;  a  tooth-pick,  which  touches 
the  vessel  with  its  tapering  end  and  the  lips 
of  the  giant,  some  thousand  fathoms  above, 
with  the  other,  serves  as  a  telephone.  The 
outcome  of  the  famous  dialogue  is  that,  if  we 
would  form  a  sound  judgment  of  things  and 
see  them  under  fresh  aspects,  there  is  nothing 
like  changing  one's  planet. 

The  probability  then  is  that  the  Sirian 
would  have  had  a  rather  poor  notion  of  our 
artistic  beauties.  To  him  our  masterpieces 
of  statuary,  even  though  sprung  from  the 
chisel  of  a  Phidias,  would  be  mere  dolls  of 
marble  or  bronze,  hardly  more  worthy  of  in- 
terest than  the  children's  rubber  dolls  are  to 
us;  our  landscape-paintings  would  be  re- 
garded as  dishes  of  spinach  smelling  unpleas- 
antly of  oil;  our  opera-scores  would  be  de- 
scribed as  very  expensive  noises. 

These  things,  belonging  to  the  domain  of 
the  senses,  possess  a  relative  aesthetic  value, 
subordinated  to  the  organism  that  judges 
them.  Certainly  the  Venus  of  Melos  and  the 
Apollo  Belvedere  are  superb  works;  but  even 
so  it  takes  a  special  eye  to  appreciate  them. 
18 


The  Processionary:  the  Eggs 

Micromegas,  if  he  saw  them,  would  be  full 
of  pity  for  the  leanness  of  human  forms.  To 
him  the  beautiful  calls  for  something  other 
than  our  sorry,  frog-like  anatomy. 

Show  him,  on  the  other  hand,  that  sort  of 
abortive  windmill  by  means  of  which  Pytha- 
goras, echoing  the  wise  men  of  Egypt,  teaches 
us  the  fundamental  properties  of  the  right- 
angled  triangle.  Should  the  good  giant,  con- 
trary to  our  expectation,  happen  not  to  know 
about  it,  explain  to  him  what  the  windmill 
means.  Once  the  light  has  entered  his  mind, 
he  will  find,  just  as  we  do,  that  there  is  beauty 
there,  real  beauty,  not  certainly  in  that  hor- 
rible hieroglyphic,  the  figure,  but  in  the  un- 
changeable relation  between  the  lengths  of  the 
three  sides;  he  will  admire  as  much  as  we  do 
geometry  the  eternal  balancer  of  space. 

There  is,  therefore,  a  severe  beauty,  be- 
longing to  the  domain  of  reason,  the  same  in 
every  world,  the  same  under  every  sun, 
whether  the  suns  be  single  or  many,  white  or 
red,  blue  or  yellow.  This  universal  beauty  is 
order.  Everything  is  done  by  weight  and 
measure,  a  great  statement  whose  truth 
breaks  upon  us  all  the  more  vividly  as  we 
probe  more  deeply  into  the  mystery  of  things. 
19 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Is  this  order,  upon  which  the  equilibrium  of 
the  universe  is  based,  the  predestined  result 
of  a  blind  mechanism?  Does  it  enter  into 
the  plans  of  an  Eternal  Geometer,  as  Plato 
had  it?  Is  it  the  ideal  of  a  supreme  lover  of 
beauty,  which  would  explain  everything? 

Why  all  this  regularity  in  the  curve  of  the 
petals  of  a  flower,  why  all  this  elegance  in 
the  chasings  on  a  Beetle's  wing-cases?  Is  that 
infinite  grace,  even  in  the  tiniest  details,  com- 
patible with  the  brutality  of  uncontrolled 
forces?  One  might  as  well  attribute  the 
artist's  exquisite  medallion  to  the  steam- 
hammer  which  makes  the  slag  sweat  in  the 
melting. 

These  are  very  lofty  thoughts  concerning  a 
miserable  cylinder  which  will  bear  a  crop  of 
caterpillars.  It  cannot  be  helped.  The  mo- 
ment one  tries  to  dig  out  the  least  detail  of 
things,  up  starts  a  why  which  scientific  inves- 
tigation is  unable  to  answer.  The  riddle  of 
the  world  has  certainly  its  explanation  other- 
where than  in  the  little  truths  of  our  labora- 
tories. But  let  us  leave  Micromegas  to  phi- 
losophize and  return  to  the  commonplaces  of 
observation. 

The  Pine  Bombyx  has  rivals  in  the  art  of 


The  Processionary:  the  Eggs 

gracefully  grouping  her  egg-beads.  Among 
their  number  is  the  Neustrian  Bombyx,  whose 
caterpillar  is  known  by  the  name  of  "Livery," 
because  of  his  costume.  Her  eggs  are  as- 
sembled in  bracelets  around  little  branches 
varying  greatly  in  nature,  apple-  and  pear- 
branches  chiefly.  Any  one  seeing  this  elegant 
work  for  the  first  time  would  be  ready  to 
attribute  it  to  the  fingers  of  a  skilled  stringer 
of  beads.  My  small  son  Paul  opens  eyes  wide 
with  surprise  and  utters  an  astonished  "Oh!" 
each  time  that  he  comes  upon  the  dear  little 
bracelet.  The  beauty  of  order  forces  itself 
upon  his  dawning  attention. 

Though  not  so  long  and  marked  above  all 
by  the  absence  of  any  wrapper,  the  ring  of 
the  Neustrian  Bombyx  reminds  one  of  the 
other's  cylinder,  stripped  of  its  scaly  covering. 
It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  these  instances 
of  elegant  grouping,  contrived  now  in  one 
way,  now  in  another,  but  always  with  consum- 
mate art.  It  would  take  up  too  much  time, 
however.  Let  us  keep  to  the  Pine  Bombyx. 

The  hatching  takes  place  in  September,  a 
Jittle  earIier"m~"mLe'  tas&  a  'little  later1  in 
gjTgtfrer! SoTEat  I  may  easily  watch  the  new- 
born  caterpillars  in  their  first  labours,  I  have 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

placed  a  few  egg-laden  branches  in  the  wind- 
ow of  my  study.     They  are  standing^  in  a 
yglass  of  water  which  will  keep  them  jgrpper- 
^ly  fresh  for  some  tinie. 

.      a     The  little  caterpillars  leave  the  egg  in  the 
Y^rnorning,   at  about  eight  o'clock.      If   I   just 
\\  J^y/  lift  the  scales  of  the  cylinder  in  process  of 
hatching,    I    see   black   heads   appear,    which 
nibble  and  burst  and  push  back  the  torn  ceil- 
ings.   The  tiny  creatures  emerge  slowly,  some 
here  and  some  there,  all  over  the  surface. 

After  the  hatching,  the  scaly  cylinder  is  as 
regular  and  as  fresh  in  appearance  as  if  it 
were  still  inhabited.  We  do  not  perceive  that 
it  is  deserted  until  we  raise  the  spangles. 
The  eggs,  still  arranged  in  regular  rows,  are 
now  so  many  yawning  goblets  of  a  slightly 
translucent  white;  they  lack  the  cap-shaped 
lid,  which  has  been  rent  and  destroyed  by  the 
new-born  grubs. 

The  puny  creatures  measure  a  millimetre1 
at  most  in  length.   Devoid  as  yet  of  the  bright 
red  that  will  soon  be  their  adornment,  they 
-        are   pale-yellow,    bristling   with   hairs,    some 
rJy    /    shortish  and  black,  others  rather  longer  and 
/         white.     The  head,  of  a  glossy  black,  is  big 
1.O3Q  inch. — Translator's  Note. 


The  Processionary :  the  Hatching 

in  proportion.  Its  diameter  is  twice  that  of 
the  body.  This  exaggerated  size  of  the  head 
implies  a  corresponding  strength  of  jaw, 
capable  of  attacking  tough  food  from  the 
start.  A  huge  head,  stoutly  clad  in  horn,  is 
the  predominant  feature  of  the  budding  cater- 
pillar. 

These  macrocephalous  ones  are,  as  we  see, 
well-armed  against  the  hardness  of  the  pine- 
needles,  so  well-armed  in  fact  that  the  meal 
begins  almost  immediately.  After  roaming 
for  a  few  moments  at  random  among  the 
scales  of  the  common  cradle,  most  of  the 
young  caterpillars  make  for  the  double  leaf 
that  served  as  an  axis  for  the  native  cylinder 
and  spread  themselves  over  it  at  length. 
Others  go  to  the  adjacent  leaves.  Here 
as  well  as  there  they  fall  to;  and  the  gnawed 
leaf  is  hollowed  into  faint  and  very  narrow 
grooves,  bounded  by  the  veins,  which  are  left 
intact. 

From  time  to  time,  three  or  four  who  have 
eaten  their  fill  fall  into  line  and  walk  in  step, 
but  soon  separate,  each  going  his  own  way. 
This  is  practice  for  the  coming  processions. 
If  I  disturb  them  ever  so  little,  they  sway 
the  front  half  of  their  bodies  and  wag  their 

2} 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

heads  with  a  jerky  movement  similar  to  the 
action  of  an  intermittent  spring. 

But  the  sun  reaches  the  corner  of  the  wind- 
ow where  the  careful  rearing  is  in  progress. 
Then,  sufficiently  refreshed,  the  little  family 
retreats  to  its  native  soil,  the  base  of  the 
double  leaf,  gathers  into  an  irregular  group 
and  begins  to  spin.  Its  work  is  a  gauze 
globule  of  extreme  delicacy,  supported  on 
some  of  the  neighbouring  leaves.  Under  this 
tent,  a  very  wide-meshed  net,  a  siesta  is  taken 
during  the  hottest  and  brightest  part  of  the 
day.  In  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  has  gone 
from  the  window,  the  flock  leaves  its  shelter, 
disperses  around,  sometimes  forming  a  little 
procession  within  a  radius  of  an  inch,  and 
starts  browsing  again. 

Thus  the  very  moment  of  hatching  pro- 
claims talents  which  age  will  develop  without 
adding  to  their  number.  In  less  than  an  hour 
from  the  bursting  of  the  egg,  the  caterpillar 
is  both  a  processionary  and  a  spinner.  He 
also  flees  the  light  when  taking  refreshment. 
We  shall  soon  find  him  visiting  his  grazing- 
grounds  only  at  night. 

The  spinner  is  very  feeble,  but  so  active 
that  in  twenty-four  hours  the  silken  globe  at- 


The  Processionary :  the  Hatching 

tains  the  bulk  of  a  hazel-nut  and  in  a  couple 
of  weeks  that  of  an  apple.  Nevertheless,  it 
is  not  the  nucleus  of  the  great  establishment 
in  which  the  winter  is  to  be  spent.  It  is  a 
provisional  shelter,  very  light  and  inexpensive 
in  materials.  The  mildness  of  the  season 
makes  anything  else  unnecessary.  The  young 
caterpillars  freely  gnaw  the  logs,  the  poles  be- 
tween which  the  threads  are  stretched,  that  is 
to  say,  the  leaves  contained  within  the  silken 
tent.  Their  house  supplies  them  at  the  same 
time  with  board  and  lodging.  This  excellent  ar- 
rangement saves  them  from  having  to  go  out, 
a  dangerous  proceeding  at  their  age.  For  these 
puny  ones,  the  hammock  is  also  the  larder. 
Nibbled  down  to  their  veins,  the  supporting 
leaves  wither  and  easily  come  unfastened  from 
the  branches;  and  the  silken  globe  becomes  a 
hovel  that  crumbles  with  the  first  gust  of 
wind.  The  family  then  moves  on  and  goes 
elsewhere  to  erect  a  new  tent,  lasting  no  longer 
than  the  first.  Even  so  does  the  Arab  move 
on,  as  the  pastures  around  his  camel-hide 
dwelling  become  exhausted.  These  temporary 
establishments  are  renewed  several  times  over, 
always  at  greater  heights  than  the  last,  so 
much  so  that  the  tribe,  which  was  hatched  on 

25 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

the  lower  branches  trailing  on  the  ground, 
gradually  reaches  the  higher  boughs  and 
sometimes  the  very  summit  of  the  pine-tree. 

In  a  few  weeks'  time,  a  first  moult  replaces 
the  humble  fleece  of  the  start,  which  is  pale- 
coloured,  shaggy  and  ugly,  by  another  which 
lacks  neither  richness  nor  elegance.  On  the 
dorsal  surface,  the  various  segments,  ex- 
cepting the  first  three,  are  adorned  with  a 
mosaic  of  six  little  bare  patches,  of  a  bright 
red,  which  stand  out  a  little  above  the  dark 
background  of  the  skin.  Two,  the  largest, 
are  in  front,  two  behind  and  one,  almost  dot- 
shaped,  on  either  side  of  the  quadrilateral. 
The  whole  is  surrounded  by  a  palisade  of 
scarlet  bristles,  divergent  and  lying  almost 
flat.  The  other  hairs,  those  of  the  belly  and 
sides,  are  longer  and  whitish. 

In  the  centre  of  this  crimson  marquetry 
stand  two  clusters  of  very  short  *  bristles, 
gathered  into  flattened  tufts  which  gleam  in 
the  sun  like  specks  of  gold.  The  length  of 
the  caterpillar  is  now  about  two  centimetres1 
and  his  width  three  or  four  millimetres." 
Such  is  the  costume  of  middle  age,  which,  like 
the  earlier  one,  was  unknown  to  Reaumur. 

xAbout  three-quarters  of  an  inch.— Translator's  Note. 
2.U7  to  .156  inch.— Translator's  Note. 
26 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   PINE   PROCESSIONARY:   THE   NEST;  THE 
COMMUNITY 

NOVEMBER  arrives,  however,  bringing 
cold  weather;  the  time  has  come  to  build 
the  stout  winter  tabernacle.  High  up  in  the 
pine  the  tip  of  a  bough  is  chosen,  with  suitably 
close-packed  and  convergent  leaves.  The 
spinners  surround  it  with  a  spreading  network, 
which  bends  the  adjacent  leaves  a  little  nearer 
and  ends  by  incorporating  them  into  the 
fabric.  In  this  way  they  obtain  an  enclosure 
half  silk,  half  leaves,  capable  of  withstanding 
the  inclemencies  of  the  weather. 

Early  in  December  the  work  has  increased 
to  the  size  of  a  man's  two  fists  or  more.  In 
its  ultimate  perfection,  it  attains  a  volume  of 
nearly  half  a  gallon  by  the  end  of  winter. 

It  is  roughly  egg-shaped,  tapering  to  a  cert- 
ain length  below  and  extended  into  a  sheath 
which  envelops  the  supporting  branch.  The 
origin  of  this  silky  extension  is  as  follows: 
every  evening  between  seven  and  nine  o'clock, 
27 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

weather  permitting,  the  caterpillars  leave  the 
nest  and  go  down  the  bare  part  of  the 
bough  which  forms  the  pole  of  the  tent.  The 
road  is  broad,  for  this  axis  is  sometimes 
as  wide  as  the  neck  of  a  claret-bottle.  The 
descent  is  accomplished  without  any  attempt 
at  order  and  always  slowly,  so  much  so  that 
the  first  caterpillars  to  come  out  have  not  yet 
dispersed  before  they  are  caught  up  by  the 
others.  The  branch  is  thus  covered  by  a  con- 
tinuous bark  of  caterpillars,  made  up  of  the 
whole  community,  which  gradually  divides 
into  squads  and  disperses  to  this  side  and  that 
on  the  nearest  branches  to  crop  their  leaves. 
Now  not  one  of  the  caterpillars  moves  a  step 
without  working  his  spinneret.  Therefore  the 
broad  downward  path,  which  on  the  way 
back  will  be  the  ascending  path,  is  covered, 
as  the  result  of  constant  traffic,  with  a  multi- 
tude of  threads  forming  an  unbroken  sheath. 
It  is  obvious  that  this  sheath,  in  which  each 
caterpillar,  passing  backwards  and  forwards 
on  his  nocturnal  rambles,  leaves  a  double 
thread,  is  not  an  indicator  laid  down  with  the 
sole  object  of  simplifying  the  journey  back  to 
the  nest :  a  mere  ribbon  would  be  enough  for 
that.  Its  use  might  well  be  to  strengthen  the 


The  Processionary :  the  Nest 

edifice,  to  give  it  deeper  foundations  and  to 
join  it  by  a  multitude  of  cables  to  the  steady 
branch. 

The  whole  thing  thus  consists,  above,  of 
the  home  distended  into  an  ovoid  and,  below, 
of  the  stalk,  the  sheath  surrounding  the  sup- 
port and  adding  its  resistance  to  that  of  the 
numerous  other  fastenings. 

Each  nest  that  has  not  yet  had  its  shape 
altered  by  the  prolonged  residence  of  the 
caterpillars  shows  in  the  centre  a  bulky,  milk- 
white  shell,  with  around  it  a  wrapper  of  dia- 
phanous gauze.  The  central  mass,  formed 
of  thickly-woven  threads,  has  for  a  wall  a 
thick  quilt  into  which  are  absorbed,  as  sup- 
ports, numbers  of  leaves,  green  and  intact. 
The  thickness  of  this  wall  may  be  anything 
up  to  three-quarters  of  an  inch. 

At  the  top  of  the  dome  are  round  openings, 
varying  greatly  in  number  and  distribution,  as 
wide  across  as  an  ordinary  lead-pencil.  These 
are  the  doors  of  the  house,  through  which  the 
caterpillars  go  in  and  out.  All  around  the 
shell  are  projecting  leaves,  which  the  insects' 
teeth  have  respected.  From  the  tip  of  each 
leaf  there  radiate,  in  graceful,  undulating 
curves,  threads  which,  loosely  interlaced,  form 
29 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

a  light  tent,  a  spacious  verandah  of  careful 
workmanship,  especially  in  the  upper  part. 
Here  we  find  a  broad  terrace, on  which,  in  the 
daytime,  the  caterpillars  come  and  doze  in 
the  sun,  heaped  one  upon  the  other,  with 
rounded  backs.  The  network  stretching 
overhead  does  duty  as  an  awning :  it  mode- 
rates the  heat  of  the  sun's  rays;  it  also  saves 
the  sleepers  from  a  fall  when  the  bough  rocks 
in  the  wind. 

Let  us  take  our  scissors  and  rip  open  the 
nest  from  end  to  end  longitudinally.  A  wide 
window  opens  and  allows  us  to  see  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  inside.  The  first  thing  to 
strike  us  is  that  the  leaves  contained  in  the 
enclosure  are  intact  and  quite  sound.  The 
young  caterpillars  in  their  temporary  esta- 
blishments gnaw  the  leaves  within  the  silken 
wrapper  to  death;  they  thus  have  their  larder 
stocked  for  a  few  days  without  having  to  quit 
their  shelter  in  bad  weather,  a  condition  made 
necessary  by  their  weakness.  When  they 
grow  stronger  and  start  working  on  their  win- 
ter home,  they  are  very  careful  not  to  touch 
the  leaves.  Why  these  new  scruples? 

The  reason  is  evident.  If  bruised,  those 
leaves,  the  framework  of  the  house,  would 
30 


The  Processionary :  the  Nest 

very  soon  wither  and  then  be  blown  off  with 
the  first  breath  of  wind.  The  silken  purse, 
torn  from  its  base,  would  collapse.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  the  leaves  are  respected,  they 
remain  vigorous  and  furnish  a  stout  support 
against  the  assaults  of  winter.  A  solid  fast- 
ening is  superfluous  for  the  summer  tent, 
which  lasts  but  a  day;  it  is  indispensable  to 
the  permanent  shelter  which  will  have  to  bear 
the  burden  of  heavy  snows  and  the  buffeting 
of  icy  winds.  Fully  alive  to  these  perils,  the 
spinner  of  the  pine-tree  considers  himself 
bound,  however  importunate  his  hunger, 
not  to  saw  through  the  rafters  of  his 
house. 

Inside  the  nest,  therefore,  opened  by  my 
scissors  I  see  a  thick  arcade  of  green  leaves, 
more  or  less  closely  wrapped  in  a  silky  sheath 
whence  dangle  shreds  of  cast  skin  and  strings 
of  dried  droppings.  In  short, -this  interior 
is  an  extremely  unpleasant  place,  a  rag-shop 
and  a  sewage-farm  in  one,  and  corresponds 
in  no  way  with  the  imposing  exterior.  All 
around  is  a  solid  wall  of  quilting  and  of 
closely-woven  leaves.  There  are  no  cham- 
bers, no  compartments  marked  off  by  parti- 
tion-walls. It  is  a  single  room,  turned  into  a 
31 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

labyrinth  by  the  colonnade  of  green  leaves 
placed  in  rows  one  above  the  other  through- 
out the  oval  hall.  Here  the  caterpillars 
stay  when  resting,  gathered  on  the  columns, 
heaped  in  confused  masses. 

When  we  remove  the  hopeless  tangle  at  the 
top,  we  see  the  light  filtering  in  at  certain 
points  of  the  roof.  These  luminous  points  cor- 
respond with  the  openings  that  communicate 
with  the  outer  air.  The  network  that  forms 
a  wrapper  to  the  nest  has  no  special  exits. 
To  pass  through  it  in  either  direction,  the 
caterpillars  have  only  to  push  the  sparse 
threads  aside  slightly.  The  inner  wall,  a  com- 
pact rampart,  has  its  doors;  the  flimsy  outer 
veil  has  none. 

It  is  in  the  morning,  at  about  ten  o'clock, 
that  the  caterpillars  leave  their  night-apart- 
ment and  come  to  take  the  sun  on  their  ter- 
race, under  the  awning  which  the  points  of 
the  leaves  hold  up  at  a  distance.  They  spend 
the  whole  day  there  dozing.  Motionless, 
heaped  together,  they  steep  themselves  de- 
liciously  in  warmth  and  from  time  to  time  be- 
tray their  bliss  by  nodding  and  wagging  their 
heads.  At  six  or  seven  o'clock,  when  it  grows 
dark,  the  sleepers  awake,  bestir  themselves, 
32 


The  Processionary  :  the  Nest 

separate  and  go  their  several  ways  over  the 
surface  of  the  nest. 

We  now  behold  an  indeed  delightful  spec- 
tacle. Bright-red  stripes  meander  in  every 
direction  over  the  white  sheet  of  silk.  One 
goes  up,  another  comes  down,  a  third  moves 
aslant;  others  form  a  short  procession.  And, 
as  they  solemnly  walk  about  in  a  splendid  dis- 
order, each  glues  to  the  ground  which  it  covers 
the  thread  that  constantly  hangs  from  its  lip. 

Thus  is  the  thickness  of  the  shelter  in- 
creased by  a  fine  layer  added-  immediately 
above  the  previous  structure;  thus  is  the 
dwelling  strengthened  by  fresh  supports.  The 
adjoining  green  leaves  are  taken  into  the  net- 
work and  absorbed  in  the  building.  If  the 
tiniest  bit  of  them  remains  free,  curves  radiate 
from  that  point,  increasing  the  size  of  the 
veil  and  fastening  it  at  a  greater  distance. 
Every  evening,  therefore,  for  an  hour  or  two, 
great  animation  reigns  on  the  surface  of  the 
nest,  if  the  weather  permits;  and  the  work 
of  consolidating  and  thickening  the  structure 
is  carried  on  with  indefatigable  zeal. 

Do  they  foresee  the  future,  these  wary  ones 
who  take  such  precautions  against  the  rigours 
of  winter?  Obviously  not.  Their  few 

33 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

months'  experience — if  indeed  experience  can 
be  mentioned  in  connection  with  a  caterpillar 
— tells  them  of  savoury  bellyfuls  of  green 
stuff,  of  gentle  slumbers  in  the  sun  on  the  ter- 
race of  the  nest;  but  nothing  hitherto  has 
made  them  acquainted  with  cold,  steady  rain, 
with  frost,  snow  and  furious  blasts  of  wind. 
And  these  creatures,  knowing  naught  of  win- 
ter's woes,  take  the  same  precautions  as  if  they 
were  thoroughly  aware  of  all  that  the  incle- 
ment season  holds  in  store  for  them.  They 
work  away  at  their  house  with  an  ardour  that 
seems  to  say : 

"Oh,  how  nice  and  warm  we  shall  be  in 
our  beds  here,  nestling  one  against  the  other, 
when  the  pine-tree  swings  aloft  its  frosted 
candelabra !  Let  us  work  with  a  will !  Labore- 
mus!" 

Yes,  caterpillars,  my  friends,  let  us  work 
with  a  will,  great  and  small,  men  and  grubs 
alike,  so  that  we  may  fall  asleep  peacefully; 
you  with  the  torpor  that  makes  way  for  your 
transformation  into  Moths,  we  with  that  last 
sleep  which  breaks  off  life  only  to  renew  it. 
Laboremus! 

Anxious  to  watch  my  caterpillars'  habits  in 
-detail,  without  having  to  sally  forth  by  lan- 

34 


The  Processionary  :  the  Nest 

tern-light,  often  in  bad  weather,  to  see  what 
happens  in  the  pine-trees  at  the  end  of  the  en- 
closure, I  have  installed  half-a-dozen  nests 
in  a  greenhouse,  a  modest,  glazed  shelter 
which,  though  hardly  any  warmer  than  the  air 
outside,  at  least  affords  protection  from  the 
wind  and  rain.  Fixed  in  the  sand,  at  a  height 
of  about  eighteen  inches,  by  the  base  of  the 
bough  that  serves  as  both  an  axis  and  a  frame- 
work, each  nest  receives  for  rations  a  bundle 
of  little  pine-branches,  which  are  renewed  as 
soon  as  they  are  consumed.  I  take  my  lan- 
tern every  evening  and  pay  my  boarders  a 
visit.  This  is  the  way  in  which  most  of  my 
facts  are  obtained. 

After  the  day's  work  comes  the  evening 
meal.  The  caterpillars  descend  from  the  nest, 
adding  a  few  more  threads  to  the  silvery 
sheath  of  the  support,  and  reach  the  posy  of 
fresh  green  stuff  which  is  lying  quite  near.  It 
is  a  magnificent  sight  to  see  the  red-coated 
band  lined  up  in  twos  and  threes  on  each 
needle  and  in  ranks  so  closely  formed  that  the 
green  sprigs  of  the  bunch  bend  under  the  load. 

The  diners,  all  motionless,  all  poking  their 
heads  forward,  nibble  in  silence,  placidly. 
Their  broad  black  foreheads  gleam  in  the 

35 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

rays  of  the  lantern.  A  shower  of  granules 
drops  on  the  sand  below.  These  are  the 
residues  of  easy-going  stomachs,  only  too 
ready  to  digest  their  food.  By  to-morrow 
morning  the  soil  will  have  disappeared  under 
a  greenish  layer  of  this  intestinal  hail.  Yes, 
indeed,  it  is  a  sight  to  see,  one  far  more  stimu- 
lating than  that  of  the  Silk-worms' mess-room. 
Young  and  old,  we  are  all  so  much  interested 
in  it  that  our  evenings  almost  invariably  end  in 
a  visit  to  the  greenhouse  caterpillars. 

The  meal  is  prolonged  far  into  the  night. 
Satisfied  at  last,  some  sooner,  some  later,  they 
go  back  to  the  nest,  where  for  a  little  longer, 
feeling  their  silk-glands  filled,  they  continue 
spinning  on  the  surface.  These  hard  workers 
would  scruple  to  cross  the  white  carpet  with- 
out contributing  a  few  threads.  It  is  getting 
on  for  one  or  even  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing when  the  last  of  the  band  goes  indoors. 

My  duty  as  a  foster-father  is  daily  to  re- 
new the  bunch  of  sprigs,  which  are  shorn  to 
the  last  leaf;  on  the  other  hand,  my  duty  as 
an  historian  is  to  enquire  to  what  extent  the 
diet  can  be  varied.  The  district  supplies  me 
with  Processionaries  on  the  Scotch  pine,  the 
maritime  pine  and  the  Aleppo  pine  indif- 


The  Processionary :  the  Nest 

ferently,  but  never  on  the  other  Coni ferae. 
Yet  one  would  think  that  any  resin-scented 
leaf  ought  to  suit.  So  says  chemical  analysis. 

We  must  mistrust  the  chemist's  retort  when 
it  pokes  its  nose  into  the  kitchen.  It  may  suc- 
ceed in  making  butter  out  of  tallow-candles 
and  brandy  out  of  potatoes;  but,  when  it  tells 
us  that  the  products  are  identical,  we  shall  do 
well  to  refuse  these  abominations.  Science, 
astonishingly  rich  as  it  is  in  poison,  will  never 
provide  us  with  anything  fit  to  eat,  because, 
though  the  raw  substance  falls  to  a  large  ex- 
tent within  its  domain,  that  same  substance 
escapes  its  methods  the  moment  that  it  is 
wanted  organized,  divided  and  subdivided  in- 
definitely by  the  process  of  life,  as  needed 
by  the  stomach,  whose  requirements  are  not 
to  be  met  by  measured  doses  of  our  reagents. 
The  raw  material  of  cell  and  fibre  may  per- 
haps be  artificially  obtained,  some  day;  cell 
and  fibre  themselves,  never.  There's  the  rub 
with  your  chemical  feeding. 

The  caterpillars  loudly  proclaim  the  insur- 
mountable difficulty  of  the  problem.  Relying 
on  my  chemical  data,  I  offer  them  the  dif- 
ferent substitutes  for  the  pine  growing  in  my 
enclosure:  the  spruce,  the  yew,  the  thuja,  the 

37 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

juniper,  the  cypress.  What!  Am  I  asking 
them,  Pine  Caterpillars,  to  bite  into  that? 
They  will  take  good  care  not  to,  despite  the 
tempting  resinous  smell !  They  would  die  of 
hunger  rather  than  touch  it!  One  conifer 
and  one  only  is  excepted :  the  cedar.  My 
charges  browse  upon  its  leaves  with  no  appre- 
ciable repugnance.  Why  the  cedar  and  not 
the  others?  I  do  not  know.  The  caterpil- 
lar's stomach,  fastidious  as  our  own,  has  its 
secrets. 

Let  us  pass  to  other  tests.  I  have  just  slit 
open  longitudinally  a  nest  whose  internal 
structure  I  want  to  explore.  Owing  to  the 
natural  shrinkage  of  the  split  swan's-down,  the 
deft  reaches  two  fingers'  breadth  in  the  centre 
and  tapers  at  the  top  and  bottom.  What  will 
the  spinners  do  in  the  presence  of  such  a 
disaster?  The  operation  is  performed  by  day, 
while  the  caterpillars  are  slumbering  in  heaps 
upon  the  dome.  As  the  living-room  is  de- 
serted at  this  time,  I  can  cut  boldly  with  the 
scissors  without  risk  of  damaging  any  part 
of  the  population. 

My  ravages  do  not  wake  the  sleepers :  all 
day  long  not  one  appears  upon  the  breach. 
This  indifference  looks  as  though  it  were  due 
38 


The  Processionary :  the  Nest 

to  the  fact  that  the  danger  is  not  yet  known. 
Things  will  be  different  to-night,  when  the 
busy  work  begins  again.  However  dull  they 
may  be,  the  caterpillars  will  certainly  notice 
that  hugh  window  which  freely  admits  the 
deadly  draughts  of  winter;  and,  possessing; 
any  amount  of  padding,  they  will  crowd 
round  the  dangerous  gap  and  stop  it  up  in  a 
trice.  Thus  do  we  argue,  forgetting  the  ani- 
mal's intellectual  darkness. 

What  really  happens  is  that,  when  night 
falls,  the  indifference  of  the  caterpillars  re- 
mains as  great  as  ever.  The  breach  in  fhe 
tent  provokes  not  a  sign  of  excitement.  They 
move  to  and  fro  on  the  surface  of  the  nest; 
they  work,  they  spin  as  usual.  There  is  no 
change,  absolutely  none,  in  their  behaviour. 
When  the  road  covered  chances  to  bring  some 
of  them  to  the  brink  of  the  ravine,  we  see 
no  alacrity  on  their  part,  no  sign  of  anxiety, 
no  attempt  to  close  up  the  two  edges  of  the 
slit.  They  simply  strive  to  accomplish  the 
difficult  crossing  and  to  continue  their  stroll 
as  though  they  were  walking  on  a  perfect 
web.  And  they  manage  it  somehow  or  other, 
by  fixing  the  thread  as  far  as  the  length  of 
*heir  body  permits. 

39 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Having  once  crossed  the  gulf,  they  pursue 
their  way  imperturbably,  without  stopping  any 
more  at  the  breach.  Others  come  upon  the 
scene  and,  using  the  threads  already  laid  as 
foot-bridges,  pass  over  the  rent  and  walk  on, 
leaving  their  own  thread  as  they  go.  Thus 
the  first  night's  work  results  in  the  laying  over 
the  cleft  of  a  filmy  gauze,  hardly  perceptible, 
tut  just  sufficient  for  the  traffic  of  the  colony. 
The  same  thing  is  repeated  on  the  nights  that 
follow;  and  the  crevice  ends  by  being  closed 
with  a  scanty  sort  of  Spider's  web.  And  that 
is  all. 

There  is  no  improvement  by  the  end  of  the 
winter.  The  window  made  by  my  scissors 
is  still  wide  open,  though  thinly  veiled;  its 
black  spindle  shape  shows  from  the  top  of 
the  nest  to  the  bottom.  There  is  no  darn 
in  the  split  texture,  no  piece  of  swan's-down 
let  in  between  the  two  edges  to  restore  the 
roof  to  its  original  state.  If  the  accident  had 
happened  in  the  open  a:r  and  not  under  glass, 
the  foolish  spinners  would  probably  have  died 
of  cold  in  their  cracked  house. 

Twice  renewed  with  the  same  results,  this 
test  proves  that  the  Pine  Caterpillars  are  not 
alive  to  the  danger  of  their  split  dwelling. 


The  Processionary :  the  Nest 

Expert  spinners  though  they  be,  they  seem 
as  unconscious  of  the  ruin  of  their  work  as 
the  spools  in  a  factory  are  of  a  broken  thread. 
They  could  easily  make  good  the  damage  by 
stopping  up  the  breach  with  the  silk  that  is 
lavished  elsewhere  without  urgent  need;  they 
could  weave  upon  it  a  material  as  thick  and 
solid  as  the  rest  of  the  walls.  But  no,  they 
placidly  continue  their  habitual  task;  they  spin 
as  they  spun  yesterday  and  as  they  will  spin 
to-morrow,  strengthening  the  parts  that  are 
already  strong,  thickening  what  is  already- 
thick  enough;  and  not  one  thinks  of  stopping 
the  disastrous  gap.  To  let  a  piece  into  that 
hole  would  mean  weaving  the  tent  all  over 
again  from  the  beginning;  and  no  insect,  how- 
ever industrious,  goes  back  to  what  it  has 
already  done. 

I  have  often  called  attention  to  this  feature 
in  animal  psychology;  notably  I  have  de- 
scribed the  ineptitude  of  the  caterpillar  of  the 
Great  Peacock  Moth.1  When  the  experi- 
menter lops  the  top  off  the  complicated  eel- 
trap  which  forms  the  pointed  end  -of  the  co- 
coon, this  caterpillar  spends  the  silk  remaining 

lln  the  course  of  an  essay  on  aberration  of  instinct  in 
a   certain   Mason-wasp   which  is  not  yet  translated   into 
English. — Translator's  Note. 
41 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

to  him  in  work  of  secondary  importance,  in- 
stead of  making  good  the  series  of  cones,  each 
fitting  into  the  other,  which  are  so  essential  to 
the  hermit's  protection.  He  continues  his 
normal  task  imperturbably,  as  though  nothing 
out  of  the  way  had  taken  place.  Even  so  does 
the  spinner  in  the  pine-tree  act  with  his  burst 
tent. 

Your  foster-parent  must  perpetrate  yet 
another  piece  of  mischief,  O  my  Proces- 
•sionary;  but  this  time  it  shall  be  to  your 
advantage !  It  does  not  take  me  long  to  per- 
ceive that  the  nests  intended  to  last  through 
the  winter  often  contain  a  population  much 
greater  than  that  of  the  temporary  shelters 
woven  by  the  very  young  caterpillars.  I  also 
notice  that,  when  they  have  attained  their  ulti- 
mate dimensions,  these  nests  differ  very  con- 
siderably in  size.  The  largest  of  them  are 
equal  to  five  or  six  of  the  smallest.  What  is 
the  cause  of  these  variations? 

Certainly,  if  all  the  eggs  turned  out  well, 
the  scaly  cylinder  containing  the  laying  of  a 
single  mother  would  be  enough  to  fill  a  splen- 
did purse :  there  are  three  hundred  enamelled 
beads  here  for  hatching.  But  in  families 
which  swarm  unduly  an  enormous  waste  al- 


The  Processionary:  the  Community 

ways  takes  places  and  restores  the  balance  of 
things;  if  the  called  are  legion,  the  chosen  are 
a  well  thinned-out  troop,  as  is  proved  by  the 
Cicada,  the  Praying  Mantis1  and  the  Cricket. 

The  Pine  Processionary,  another  crucible 
of  organic  matter  of  which  various  devourers 
take  advantage,  is  also  reduced  in  numbers 
immediately  after  the  hatching.  The  delicate 
mouthful  has  shrunk  to  a  few  dozens  of  sur- 
vivors around  the  light  globular  network  in 
which  the  family  passes  the  sunny  autumn 
days.  Soon  they  will  have  to  be  thinking  of 
the  stoutly-built  winter  tent.  At  such  a  time, 
it  would  be  a  boon  if  they  could  be  many,  for 
from  union  springs  strength. 

I  suspect  an  easy  method  of  fusion  among 
a  few  families.  To  serve  them  as  a  guide 
in  their  peregrinations  about  the  tree,  the 
caterpillars  have  their  silk  ribbon,  which  they 
follow  on  their  return,  after  describing  a  bend. 
They  may  also  miss  it  and  strike  another,  one 
differing  in  no  respect  from  their  own.  This 
new  ribbon  marks  the  way  to  some  nest 
situated  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  strayed 

1A  predatory  insect,  akin  to  the  Locusts  and  Crickets^ 
which,  when  at  rest,  adopts  an  attitude  resembling  that 
of  prayer.  Cf.  Social  Life  in  the  Insect  World:  chaps, 
v  to  vii.— Translator's  \'otc. 


The  Lite  oi  the  Caterpillar 

caterpillars,  failing  to  distinguish  it  from  their 
own  ribbon,  follow  it  conscientiously  and  in 
this  manner  end  by  reaching  a  strange  dwell- 
ing. Suppose  them  to  be  peacefully  received : 
what  will  happen? 

Once  fused,  the  several  groups  assembled 
by  the  accident  of  the  path  will  form  a  power- 
ful city,  fitted  to  produce  great  works;  the 
concerted  weaklings  will  give  rise  to  a  strong, 
united  body.  This  would  explain  the  thickly- 
populated,  bulky  nests  situated  so  near  to 
others  that  have  remained  puny.  The  former 
would  be  the  work  of  a  syndicate  incorporat- 
ing the  interests  of  spinners  collected  from 
different  parts;  the  latter  would  belong  to 
families  left  in  isolation  by  the  luck  of  the 
road. 

It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  the  chance- 
comers,  guided  by  a  strange  ribbon,  meet  with 
a  good  reception  in  the  new  abode.  The  ex- 
periment is  easily  made  upon  the  nests  in  the 
greenhouse.  In  the  evening,  at  the  hours 
devoted  to  grazing,  I  remove  with  a  pruning- 
shears  the  different  little  branches  covered 
with  the  population  of  one  nest  and  lay  them 
on  the  provisions  of  the  neighbouring  nest, 
which  provisions  are  also  overrun  with  cater- 

44 


The  Processionary:  the  Community 

pillars.  Or  I  can  make  shorter  work  of  it 
by  taking  the  whole  bunch,  well  covered  with 
the  troop,  of  the  first  pouch  and  planting  it 
right  beside  the  bunch  of  the  second,  so  that 
the  leaves  of  the  two  mingle  a  little  at  the 
edges. 

There  is  not  the  least  quarrelling  between 
the  real  proprietors  and  the  new  arrivals. 
Both  go  on  peacefully  browsing,  as  though 
nothing  had  happened.  And  all  without  hesi- 
tation, when  bed-time  comes,  make  for  the 
nest,  like  brothers  who  have  always  lived  to- 
gether; all  do  some  spinning  before  retiring 
to  rest,  thicken  the  blanket  a  little  and  are 
then  swallowed  up  in  the  dormitory.  By 
repeating  the  same  operation  next  day  and,  if 
necessary,  the  day  after,  in  order  to  collect 
the  laggards,  I  succeed  without  the  slightest 
difficulty  in  wholly  depopulating  the  first  nest 
and  transferring  all  its  caterpillars  to  the 
second. 

I  venture  to  do  something  better  still.  The 
same  method  of  transportation  allows  me  to- 
quadruple  the  output  of  a  spinning-mill  by 
adding  to  it  the  workers  of  three  similar  es- 
tablishments. And,  if  I  limit  myself  to  this 
increase,  the  reason  is  not  that  any  confusion 

45 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

manifests  itself  in  this  shifting  of  quarters, 
but  that  I  see  no  bounds  to  my  experiment, 
so  cheerfully  do  the  caterpillars  accept  any 
addition  to  their  number.  The  more  spin- 
ners, the  more  spinning :  a  very  judicious  rule 
of  conduct. 

Let  us  add  that  the  caterpillars  which  have 
been  transported  cherish  no  regrets  for  their 
old  house.  They  are  quite  at  home  with  the 
others  and  make  no  attempt  to  regain  the 
nest  whence  they  were  banished  by  my  arti- 
fices. It  is  not  the  distance  that  discourages 
them,  for  the  empty  dwelling  is  only  half  a 
yard  away  at  most.  If,  for  the  purpose  of 
my  studies,  I  wish  to  restock  the  deserted 
nest,  I  am  obliged  once  more  to  resort  to 
transportation,  which  invariably  proves  suc- 
cessful. 

Later,  in  February,  when  an  occasional  fine 
day  allows  of  long  processions  on  the  walls 
and  the  sand-covered  shelf  of  the  green- 
house, I  am  able  to  watch  the  fusing  of  two 
groups  without  personally  intervening.  All 
that  I  have  to  do  is  patiently  to  follow  the 
evolutions  of  a  file  on  the  march.  I  see  it 
sometimes,  after  leaving  one  nest,  enter  a 
different  one,  guided  by  some  fortuitous 
46 


The  Processionary:  the  Community 

change  of  route.  Thenceforward  the  stran- 
gers form  part  of  the  community  on  the  same 
footing  as  the  others.  In  a  like  fashion,  when 
the  caterpillars  walk  abroad  upon  the  tree 
at  night,  the  scanty  groups  of  the  outset  must 
increase  and  gather  the  number  of  spinners 
which  an  extensive  building  requires. 

Everything  for  everybody.  So  says  the 
Pine  Processionary,  nibbling  his  leaves  with- 
out quarrelling  in  the  least  over  his  neigh- 
bours' mouthfuls,  or  else  entering — and  being 
always  peacefully  received — another's  home 
precisely  as  he  would  his  own.  Whether  a 
member  of  the  tribe  or  a  stranger,  he  finds 
room  in  the  refectory  and  room  in  the  dormi- 
tory. The  others'  nest  is  his  nest.  The 
others'  grazing-ground  is  his  grazing-ground, 
in  which  he  is  entitled  to  his  fair  share,  one 
neither  greater  nor  smaller  than  the  share  of 
his  habitual  or  casual  companions. 

Each  for  all  and  all  for  each.  So  says 
the  Processionary,  who  every  evening  spends 
his  little  capital  of  silk  on  enlarging  a  shelter 
that  is  often  new  to  him.  What  would  he  do 
with  his  puny  skein,  if  alone?  Hardly  any- 
thing. But  there  are  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  them  in  the  spinning-mill;  and  the  result 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

of  their  infinitesimal  contributions,  woven  into 
a  common  stuff,  is  a  thick  blanket  capable 
of  resisting  the  winter.  In  working  for 
himself,  each  works  for  the  others;  and 
these  on  their  side  work  as  zealously  for 
each.  O  lucky  animals  that  know  nothing 
of  property,  the  mother  of  strife!  O  en- 
viable cenobites,  who  practise  the  strictest 
communism ! 

These  habits  of  the  caterpillars  invite  a 
few  reflections.  Generous  minds,  richer  in 
illusions  than  in  logic,  set  communism  before 
us  as  the  sovran  cure  for  human  ills.  Is  it 
practicable  among  mankind?  At  all  times 
there  have  been,  there  still  are  and  there 
always  will  be,  fortunately,  associations  in 
which  it  is  possible  to  forget  in  common  some 
small  part  of  the  hardships  of  life;  but  is  it 
possible  to  generalize? 

The  caterpillars  of  the  pine  can  give  us 
much  valuable  information  in  this  respect. 
Let  us  have  no  false  shame :  our  material 
needs  are  shared  by  the  animals;  they  strug- 
gle as  we  do  to  take  part  in  the  general  ban- 
quet of  the  living;  and  the  manner  in  which 
they  solve  the  problem  of  existence  is  not  to 
be  despised.  Let  us  then  ask  ourselves  what 


The  Processionary:  the  Community 

are  the  reasons  that  cause  cenobitism  to  flour- 
ish among  the  Processionaries. 

One  answer  suggests  itself  inevitably,  to  be- 
gin with:  the  food  problem,  that  terrible  dis- 
turber of  the  world's  tranquillity,  is  here  non- 
existent. Peace  reigns  as  soon  as  the  stomach 
is  certain  of  being  filled  without  a  struggle. 
A  pine-needle  or  even  less  suffices  for  the 
caterpillar's  meal;  and  that  needle  is  always 
there,  waiting  to  be  eaten,  is  there  in  inex- 
haustible numbers,  almost  on  the  threshold  of 
the  home.  When  dinner-time  arrives,  we 
caterpillars  go  out,  we  take  the  air,  we  walk 
a  little  in  procession;  then,  without  laborious 
seeking,  without  jealous  rivalries,  we  seat  our- 
selves at  the  banquet.  The  table  is  plenti- 
fully spread  and  will  never  be  bare,  so  large 
and  generous  is  the  pine;  all  that  we  need 
do  is,  from  one  evening  to  the  next,  to  move 
our  dining-room  a  little  farther  on.  Conse- 
quently, there  are  no  present  and  no  future 
cares  on  the  subject  of  provisions:  the  cater- 
pillar finds  food  to  eat  almost  as  easily  as  he 
finds  air  to  breathe. 

The  atmosphere  feeds  all  creatures  on  air 
with  a  bounty  which  it  is  not  necessary  to 
crave.  All  unknown  to  itself,  without  the 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

agency  of  any  effort  or  labour,  the  animal  re- 
ceives its  share  of  the  most  vital  of  elements. 
The  niggardly  earth,  on  the  contrary,  sur- 
renders its  gifts  only  when  laboriously  forced. 
Not  fruitful  enough  to  satisfy  every  need,  it 
leaves  the  division  of  the  food  to  the  fierce 
eagerness  of  competition. 

The  mouthful  to  be  procured  engenders 
war  between  consumers.  Look  at  two 
Ground-beetles  coming  at  the  same  time  upon 
a  bit  of  Earth-worm.  Which  of  the  two 
shall  have  the  morsel?  The  matter  shall 
be  decided  by  battle,  desperate,  ferocious 
battle.  With  these  famished  ones,  who  eat 
at  long  intervals  and  do  not  always  eat 
their  fill,  communal  life  is  out  of  the 
question. 

The  Pine  Caterpillar  is  free  from  these 
woes.  He  finds  the  earth  as  generous  as  the 
atmosphere;  he  finds  eating  as  easy  as  breath- 
ing. Other  instances  of  perfect  communism 
might  be  named.  All  occur  among  species 
living  on  a  vegetable  diet,  provided  however 
that  victuals  are  plentiful  and  obtainable  with- 
out a  hard  search.  An  animal  diet,  on  the 
contrary,  a  prey,  always  more  or  less  difficult 
to  secure,  banishes  cenobitism.  Where  the 
50 


The  Processionary :  the  Community 

portion  is  too  small  for  one,  what  excuse 
would  there  be  for  guests  ? 

The  Pine  Processionary  knows  nothing  of 
privation.  He  knows  as  little  of  family  ties, 
another  source  of  unrelenting  competition. 
To  make  ourselves  a  place  in  the  sun  is  but 
a  half  of  the  struggle  imposed  upon  us  by 
life:  we  must  also,  as  far  as  possible,  pre- 
pare a  place  for  our  successors;  and,  as  the 
preservation  of  the  species  is  of  greater  im- 
portance than  that  of  the  individual,  the 
struggle  for  the  future  is  even  fiercer  than  the 
struggle  for  the  present.  Every  mother  re- 
gards the  welfare  of  her  offspring  as  her  pri- 
mary law.  Perish  all  else,  provided  that  the 
brood  flourish !  Every  one  for  himself  is  her 
maxim,  imposed  by  the  rigours  of  the  general 
conflict;  every  one  for  himself  is  her  rule,  the 
safeguard  of  the  future. 

With  maternity  and  its  imperious  duties, 
communism  ceases  to  be  practicable.  At  first 
sight,  certain  Hymenoptera1  seem  to  declare 
the  contrary.  We  find,  for  instance,  the 
Mason-bees  of  the  Sheds2  nesting  in  myriads 

1The  order  of  insects  embracing  the  Bees,  Wasps, 
Ants,  Saw-flies,  Ichneumon-flies,  etc.— Translator's  Note. 

2Cf.  The  Mason-bees,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre,  translated  by 
Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos,  passim. — Translator's 
Note. 

51 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

on  the  same  tiles  and  building  a  monumental 
edifice  at  which  all  the  mothers  work.  Is  this 
really  a  community?  Not  at  all.  It  is  a  city 
in  which  the  inhabitants  have  neighbours,  not 
collaborators.  Each  mother  kneads  her  pots 
of  honey;  each  amasses  a  dowry  for  her  off- 
spring and  nothing  but  a  dowry  for  her  off- 
spring; each  wears  herself  out  for  her  family 
and  only  for  her  family.  Oh,  it  would  be  a 
serious  business  if  some  one  merely  came  and 
alighted  on  the  brim  of  a  cell  that  did  not 
belong  to  her;  the  mistress  of  the  house  would 
give  her  to  understand,  by  means  of  a  sound 
drubbing,  that  manners  such  as  those  are  not 
to  be  endured !  She  would  have  to  skedaddle 
very  quickly,  unless  she  wanted  a  fight.  The 
rights  of  property  are  sacred  here. 

Even  the  much  more  social  Hive-bee  is  no 
exception  to  the  rule  of  maternal  egoism.  To 
each  hive  one  mother.  If  there  be  two,  civil 
war  breaks  out  and  one  of  them  perishes  by 
the  other's  dagger  or  else  quits  the  country, 
followed  by  a  part  of  the  swarm.  Although 
virtually  fit  to  lay  eggs,  the  other  Bees,  to 
the  number  of  some  twenty  thousand,  re- 
nounce maternity  and  vow  themselves  to  celi- 
bacy in  order  to  bring  up  the  prodigious 

52 


The  Processionary :  the  Community 

family  of  the  one  and  only  mother.  Here, 
communism  reigns,  under  certain  aspects ;  but, 
for  the  immense  majority,  motherhood  is 
forthwith  abolished. 

Even  so  with  the  Wasps,  the  Ants,  the 
Termites1  and  the  various  social  insects.  Life 
in  common  costs  them  dear.  Thousands  and 
thousands  remain  incomplete  and  become  the 
humble  auxiliaries  of  a  few  who  are  sexually 
endowed.  But,  whenever  maternity  is  the 
general  portion,  individualism  reappears,  as 
among  the  Mason-bees,  notwithstanding  their 
show  of  communism. 

TheJPine  Caterpillars  are  exempt  from  the 
duty  rJ  prf»cpr\m]^  fli^fqrA"  They  have  lip 
rather  are  obscureiy^^fmeparmg  one,  as 
id^rudi'men?al:\r''a?'an  ttrar1s"not 
yet  but  must  one  day  be.  With  the  blossom- 
ing of  maternity,  that  flower  of  adult  age, 
individual  property  will  not  fail  to  appear, 
attended  by  its  rivalries.  The  insect  now  so 
peaceable  will,  like  the  others,  have  its  dis- 
plays of  selfish  intolerance.  The  mothers 
will  isolate  themselves,  jealous  of  the  double 
pine-needle  in  which  the  cylinder  of  eggs  is 
to  be  fixed;  the  males,  fluttering  their  wings, 

1White  Ants. — Translator's  Note. 
53 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

will  challenge  one  another  for  the  possession 
of  the  coveted  bride,  it  is  not  a  serious  strug- 
gle among  these  easy-going  ones,  but  still  it 
presents  a  faint  picture  of  those  mortal  affrays 
which  the  mating  so  often  produces.  Love 
rules  the  world  by  battle;  it  too  is  a  hotbed  of 
competition. 

The_caterpillar,  being  almost  sexless,  is  in- 

jifferent  to  amorous  instincts.  This  is  the 
first  condition  for  living  pacifically  in  com- 
mon. But  it  is  not  enough.  The  perfect 
concord  of  the  community  demands  among  all 
its  members  an  equal  division  of  strength  and 
talent,  of  taste  and  capacity  for  work.  This 
condition,  which  perhaps  is  the  most  import- 
ant of  all,  is  fulfilled  preeminently.  If  there 
were  hundreds,  if  there  w^?eA  thousands  of 
them  in  the  same  nest,  there  Wfculd  be  no  dif- 
ference between  any  of  thefffi 

They   are    all   the   same   size   and   equally 

^stron{y;~a.ll  wear  the  sarrie^  "(Tress ;  all  possess 
the  same  gift  for  spinning;  and  all  with  equal 
7.63.1  expend  the  contents,  of  their  silk-glands 

^or  the  general  welfare.  No  one~~!cfles,  no 
one  lounges^llong  when  there  is  work  to  be 
done.  With  no  other  stimulus  than  the  sat- 
isfaction of  doing  their  duty,  every  evening, 

54 


The  Processionary:  the  Community 

when  the  weather  is  favourable,  they  all  spin 
with  equal  industry  and  drain  to  the  last  drop 
their  reservoirs  of  silk,  which  have  become 
distended  during  the  day.  In  their  tribe  there 
is  no  question  of  skilled  or  unskilled,  of  strong 
or  weak,  of  abstemious  or  gluttonous;  there 
are  neither  hard-workers  nor  idlers,  neither 
savers  nor  spendthrifts.  What  one  does  the 
others  do,  with  a  like  zeal,  no  more  and  no 
less  well.  It  is  a  splendid  world  of  equality 
truly,  but,  alas,  a  world  of  caterpillars ! 

If  it  suited  us  to  go  to  school  to  the  Pine 
Pror^ssionary,  we  should  soon  see  the  inanity 
of  our  levelling  and  communistic  theories. 
Equality  is  a  magnificent  political  catchword, 
but  little  more.  Where  is  it,  this  equality  of 
ours?  In  our  social  groups,  could  we  find 
as  many  as  two  persons  exactly  equal  in 
strength,  health,,  intelligence,  capacity  for 
work,  foresight  and  all  the  other  gifts  which 
are  the  great  factors  of  prosperity?  Where 
should  we  find  anything  analogous  to  the  exact 
parity  prevailing  among  caterpillars?  No- 
where. Inequality  is  our  law.  And  a  good 
thing,  toch 

A  sound  which  is  invariably  the  same,  how- 
ever often  multiplied,  does  not  constitute  a 
55 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

harmony.  We  need  dissimilarities,  sounds 
loud  and  soft,  deep  and  shrill;  we  need  even 
discords  which,  by  their  harshness,  throw  into 
relief  the  sweetness  of  the  chords.  In  the 
same  way,  human  societies  are  harmonious 
only  with  the  aid  of  contraries.  If  the  dreams 
of  our  levellers  could  be  realized,  we  should 
sink  to  the  monotony  of  the  caterpillar  so- 
cieties; art,  science,  progress  and  the  lofty 
flights  of  the  imagination  would  slumber  in- 
definitely in  the  dead  calm  of  mediocrity. 

Besides,  if  this  general  levelling  were  ef- 
fected, we  should  still  be  very  far  from  com- 
munism. To  achieve  that,  we  should  have 
to  do  away  with  the  family,  as  the  caterpil- 
lars and  Plato  teach  us;  we  should  need 
abundance  of  food  obtained  without  any  ef- 
fort. So  long  as  a  mouthful  of  bread  is  diffi- 
cult to  acquire,  demanding,  an  industry  and 
labour  of  which  we  are  not  all  equally  capable, 
so  long  as  the  family  remains  the  sacred  rea- 
son for  our  foresight,  so  long  will  the 
generous  theory  of  all  for  each  and  each  for 
all  be  absolutely  impracticable. 

And  then  should  we  gain  by  abolishing  the 
struggle  for  the  daily  bread  of  ourselves  and 
those  dependent  on  us  ?  It  is  very  doubtfu). 

56 


The  Processionary :  the  Community 

We  should  be  getting  rid  of  this  world's  two 
great  joys,  work  and  the  family,  the  only  joys 
that  give  any  value  to  life;  we  should  be 
stifling  exactly  that  which  makes  our  great- 
ness. And  the  result  of  this  bestial  sacrilege 
would  be  a  community  of  human  caterpillars. 
Thus  does  the  Pine  Processionary  teach  us 
by  his  example. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  PINE  PROCESSIONARY  :  THE  PROCESSION 

DROVER  Dingdong's  Sheep  followed 
the  Ram  which  Panurge  had  maliciously 
thrown  overboard  and  leapt  nimbly  into  the 
sea,  one  after  the  other,  "for  you  know,"  says 
Rabelais,  "it  is  the  nature  of  the  sheep  al- 
ways to  follow  the  first,  wheresoever  it  goes ; 
which  makes  Aristotle  mark  them  for  the 
most  silly  and  foolish  animals  in  the  world."1 

The  Pine  Caterpillar  is  even  more  sheep- 
like,  not  from  foolishness,  but  from  necessity : 
where  the  first  goes  all  the  others  go,  in  a 
regular  string,  with  not  an  empty  space  be- 
tween them. 

They  proceed  in  single  file,  in  a  continuous 
row,  each  touching  with  its  head  the  rear  of 
the  one  in  front  of  it.  The  complex  twists 
and  turns  described  in  his  vagaries  by  the 
caterpillar  leading  the  van  are  scrupulously 
described  by  all  the  others.  No  Greek  theoria 
winding  its  way  to  the  Eleusinian  festivals  was 

1Book  IV.,  chap.  viii. — Translator's  Note. 
S8 


The  Processionary:  the  Procession 

ever  more  orderly.  Hence  the  name  of 
Processionary  given  to  the  gnawer  of  the 
pine. 

His  character  is  complete  when  we  add  that 
he  is  a  rope-dancer  all  his  life  long:  he  walks 
only  on  the  tight-rope,  a  silken  rail  placed 
in  position  as  he  advances.  The  caterpillar 
who  chances  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  proces- 
sion dribbles  his  thread  without  ceasing  and 
fixes  it  on  the  path  which  his  fickle  preferences 
cause  him  to  take.  The  thread  is  so  tiny  that 
the  eye,  though  armed  with  a  magnifying- 
glass,  suspects  it  rather  than  sees  it. 

But  a  second  caterpillar  steps  on  the  slender 
footboard  and  doubles  it  with  his  thread;  a 
third  trebles  it;  and  all  the  others,  however 
many  there  be,  add  the  sticky  spray  from  their 
spinnerets,  so  much  so  that,  when  the  proces- 
sion has  marched  by,  there  remains,  as  a 
record  of  its  passing,  a  narrow  white  ribbon 
whose  dazzling  whiteness  shimmers  in  the 
sun.  Very  much  more  sumptuous  than  ours, 
their  system  of  road-making  consists  in  uphol- 
stering with  silk  instead  of  macadamizing. 
We  sprinkle  our  roads  with  broken  stones  and 
level  them  by  the  pressure  of  a  heavy  steam- 
roller; they  lay  over  their  paths  a  soft  satin 
59 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

rail,  a  work  of  general  interest  to  which  each 
contributes  his  thread. 

What  is  the  use  of  all  this  luxury?  Could 
they  not,  like  other  caterpillars,  walk  about 
without  these  costly  preparations?  I  see  two 
reasons  for  their  mode  of  progression.  It 
is  night  when  the  Processionaries  sally  forth 
to  browse  upon  the  pine-leaves.  They  leave 
their  nest,  situated  at  the  top  of  a  bough,  in 
profound  darkness;  they  go  down  the  denuded 
pole  till  they  come  to  the  nearest  branch  that 
has  not  yet  been  gnawed,  a  branch  which  be- 
comes lower  and  lower  by  degrees  as  the  con- 
sumers finish  stripping  the  upper  storeys;  they 
climb  up  this  untouched  branch  and  spread 
over  the  green  needles. 

When  they  have  had  their  suppers  and  be- 
gin to  feel  the  keen  night  air,  the  next  thing 
is  to  return  to  the  shelter  of  the  house. 
Measured  in  a  straight  line,  the  distance  is 
not  great,  hardly  an  arm's  length;  but  it  can- 
not be  covered  in  this  way  on  foot.  The 
caterpillars  have  to  climb  down  from  one 
crossing  to  the  next,  from  the  needle  to  the 
twig,  from  the  twig  to  the  branch,  from  the 
branch  to  the  bough  and  from  the  bough,  by 
a  no  les*  angular  path,  to  go  back  home.  It 
60 


The  Processionary:  the  Procession 

is  useless  to  rely  upon  sight  as  a  guide  on  this 
long  and  erratic  journey.  The  Processional^ 
it  \f  true,  f^jsjjye  ocular  specks 
of  Jij^JieadT'Eut'  they  are  so 
difficult  to  make  out  through  the  magnifying- 
glass,  that  we"  cannot  attribute  to  them  any 
great  power  of  vision.  Besides,  what  good 
would  those  short-'slghted  lenses  be  in  the 
absence  of  light,  in  black  darkness? 

It  is  equally  useless  to  think  of  the  sense 
of  smell.  Has  the  Processional  any  olfactory 
powers  or  has  he  not  ?  I  do  not  know.  With- 
out giving  a  positive  answer  to  the  question, 
I  can  at  least  declare  that  his  sense  of  smell 
is  exceedingly  dull  and  in  no  way  suited  to 
help  him  find  his  way.  This  is  proved,  in 
my  experimenWJTy  a  number  of  hungry  cater- 
pillars that,  after  a  long  fast,  pass  close  be- 
side a  pine-branch  without  betraying  any 
eagerness  or  showing  a  sign  of  stopping.  It 
is  the  sense  of  touch  that  tells  them  where 
they  are.  So  long  as  their  lips  do  not  chance 
to  light  upon  the  pasture-land,  not  one  of  them 
settles  there,  though  he  be  ravenous.  They 
do  not  hasten  to  food  which  they  have  scented 
from  afar;  they  stop  at  a  branch  which  they 
encounter  on  their  way. 
61 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Apart  from  sight  and  smell,  what  remains 
to  guide  them  in  returning  to  the  nest?  The 
ribbon  spun  on  the  road.  In  the  Cretan  laby- 
rinth, Theseus  would  have  been  lost  but  for 
the  clue  of  thread  with  which  Ariadne  sup- 
plied him.  The  spreading  maze  of  the  pine- 
needles  is,  especially  at  night,  as  inextricable 
a  labyrinth  as  that  constructed  for  Minos. 
The  Processionary  finds  his  way  through  it, 
without  the  possibility  of  a  mistake,  by  the 
aid  of  his  bit  of  silk.  At  the  time  for  going 
home,  each  easily  recovers  either  his  own 
thread  or  one  or  other  of  the  neighbouring 
threads,  spread  fanwise  by  the  diverging  herd ; 
one  by  one  the  scattered  tribe  line  up  on  the 
common  ribbon,  which  started  from  the  nest; 
and  the  sated  caravan  finds  its  way  back  to 
the  manor  with  absolute  certainty. 

Longer  expeditions  are  made  in  the  day- 
time, even  in  winter,  if  the  weather  be  fine. 
Our  caterpillars  then  come  down  from  the 
tree,  venture  on  the  ground,  march  in  proces- 
sion for  a  distance  of  thirty  yards  or  so.  The 
object  of  these  sallies  is  not  to  look  for  food, 
for  the  native  pine-tree  is  far  from  being  ex- 
hausted :  the  shorn  branches  hardly  count  amid 
the  vast  leafage.  Moreover,  the  caterpillars 
62 


The  Processionary:  the  Procession 

observe  complete  abstinence  till  nightfall. 
The  trippers  have  no  other  object  than  a  con- 
stitutional, a  pilgrimage  to  the  outskirts  to 
see  what  these  are  like,  possibly  an  inspection 
of  the  locality  where,  later  on,  they  mean  to 
bury  themselves  in  the  sand  for  their  meta- 
morphosis. 

It  goes  without  saying  that,  in  these  greater 
evolutions,  the  guiding  cord  is  not  neglected. 
It  is  now  more  necessary  than  ever.  All  con- 
tribute to  it  from  the  produce  of  their  spin- 
nerets, as  is  the  invariable  rule  whenever  there 
is  a  progression.  Not  one  takes  a  step  for- 
ward without  fixing  to  the  path  the  thread 
hanging  from  his  lip. 

If  the  series  forming  the  procession  be  at 
all  long,  the  ribbon  is  dilated  sufficiently  to 
make  it  easy  to  find;  nevertheless,  on  the 
homeward  journey,  it  is  not  picked  up  with- 
out some  hesitation.  For  observe  that  the 
caterpillars  when  on  the  march  never  turn 
completely;  to  wheel  round  on  their  tight-rope 
is  a  method  utterly  unknown  to  them.  In 
order  therefore  to  regain  the  road  already 
covered,  they  have  to  describe  a  zig-zag  whose 
windings  and  extent  are  determined  by  the 
leader's  fancy.  Hence  come  gropings  and 
63 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

roamings  which  are  sometimes  prolonged  to 
the  point  of  causing  the  herd  to  spend  the 
night  out  of  doors.  It  is  not  a  serious  mat- 
ter. They  collect  into  a  motionless  cluster. 
To-morrow  the  search  will  start  afresh  and 
will  sooner  or  later  be  successful.  Oftener 
still  the  winding  curve  meets  the  guide-thread 
at  the  first  attempt.  As  soon  as  the  first 
caterpillar  has  the  rail  between  his  legs,  all 
hesitation  ceases;  and  the  band  makes  for  the 
nest  with  hurried  steps. 

The  use  of  this  silk-tapestried  roadway  is 
evident  from  a  second  point  of  view.  To  pro- 
tect himself  against  the  severity  of  the  win- 
ter which  he  has  to  face  when  working,  the 
Pine  Caterpillar  weaves  himself  a  shelter  in 
which  he  spends  his  bad  hours,  his  days  of 
enforced  idleness.  Alone,  with  none  but  the 
meagre  resources  of  his  silk-glands,  he  would 
find  difficulty  in  protecting  himself  on  the  top 
of  a  branch  buffeted  by  the  winds.  A  sub- 
stantial dwelling,  proof  against  snow,  gales 
and  icy  fogs,  requires  the  cooperation  of  a 
large  number.  Out  of  the  individual's  piled- 
up  atoms,  the  community  obtains  a  spacious 
and  durable  establishment. 

The  enterprise  takes  a  long  time  to  com- 
64 


The  Processionary:  the  Procession 

plete.  Every  evening,  when  the  weather  per- 
mits, the  building  has  to  be  strengthened  and 
enlarged.  It  is  indispensable,  therefore,  that 
the  corporation  of  workers  should  not  be  dis- 
solved while  the  stormy  season  continues  and 
the  insects  are  still  in  the  caterpillar  stage. 
But,  without  special  arrangements,  each  noc- 
turnal expedition  at  grazing-time  would  be  a 
cause  of  separation.  At  that  moment  of  ap- 
petite for  food  there  is  a  return  to  indi- 
vidualism. The  caterpillars  become  more  or 
less  scattered,  settling  singly  on  the  branches 
around;  each  browses  his  pine-needle  sepa- 
rately. How  are  they  to  find  one  another 
afterwards  and  become  a  community  again? 

The  several  threads  left  on  the  road  make 
this  easy.  With  that  guide,  every  caterpillar, 
however  far  he  may  be,  comes  back  to  his 
companions  without  ever  missing  the  way. 
They  come  hurrying  from  a  host  of  twigs, 
from  here,  from  there,  from  above,  from  be- 
low; and  soon  the  scattered  legion  reforms 
into  a  group.  The  silk  thread  is  something 
more  than  a  road-making  expedient:  it  is  the 
social  bond,  the  system  that  keeps  the  mem- 
bers of  the  community  indissolubly  united. 

At  the  head  of  every  procession,  long  or 

65 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

short,  goes  a  first  caterpillar  whom  I  will  call 
the  leader  of  the  march  or  file,  though  the 
word  leader,  which  I  use  for  want  of  a  bet- 
ter, is  a  little  out  of  place  here.  Nothing,  in 
fact,  distinguishes  this  caterpillar  from  the 
others :  it  just  depends  upon  the  order  in 
which  they  happen  to  line  up ;  and  mere  chance 
brings  him  to  the  front.  Among  the  Proces- 
sionaries,  every  captain  is  an  officer  of  for- 
tune. The  actual  leader  leads;  presently  he 
will  be  a  subaltern,  if  the  file  should  break  up 
in  consequence  of  some  accident  and  be 
formed  anew  in  a  different  order. 

His  temporary  functions  give  him  an  atti- 
tude of  his  own.  While  the  others  follow 
passively  in  a  close  file,  he,  the  captain,  tosses 
himself  about  and  with  an  abrupt  movement 
flings  the  front  of  his  body  hither  and  thither. 
As  he  marches  ahead  he  seems  to  be  seeking 
his  way.  Does  he  in  point  of  fact  explore  the 
country  ?  Does  he  choose  the  most  practicable 
places?  Or  are  his  hesitations  merely  the  re- 
sult of  the  absence  of  a  guiding  thread  on 
ground  that  has  not  yet  been  covered?  His 
subordinates  follow  very  placidly,  reassured 
by  the  cord  which  they  hold  between  their 
legs;  he,  deprived  of  that  support,  is  uneasy. 
66 


The  Processionary:  the  Procession 

Why  cannot  I  read  what  passes  under  his 
black,  shiny  skull,  so  like  a  drop  of  tar?  To 
judge  by  actions,  there  is  here  a  small  dose 
of  discernment  which  is  able,  after  experi- 
menting, to  recognize  excessive  roughnesses, 
over-slippery  surfaces,  dusty  places  that  offer 
no  resistance  and,  above  all,  the  threads  left 
by  other  excursionists.  This  is  all  or  nearly 
all  that  my  long  acquaintance  with  the  Pro- 
cessionaries  has  taught  me  as  to  their  men- 
tality. Poor  brains,  indeed;  poor  creatures, 
whose  commonwealth  has  its  safety  hanging 
upon  a  thread  ! 

The  processions  vary  greatly  in  length. 
The  finest  that  I  have  seen  manoeuvring  on 
the  ground  measured  twelve  or  thirteen  yards 
and  numbered  about  three  hundred  caterpil- 
lars, drawn  up  with  absolute  precision  in  a 
wavy  line.  But,  if  there  were  only  two  in  a 
row,  the  order  would  still  be  perfect:  the 
second  touches  and  follows  the  first. 

By  February  I  have  processions  of  all 
lengths  in  the  greenhouse  What  tricks  can  I 
play  upon  them  ?  I  see  only  two :  to  do  away 
with  the  leader;  and  to  cut  the  thread. 

The  suppression  of  the  leader  of  the  file 
produces  nothing  striking.  If  the  thing  is 
67 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

done  without  creating  a  disturbance,  the  pro- 
cession does  not  alter  its  ways  at  all.  The 
second  caterpillar,  promoted  to  captain, 
knows  the  duties  of  his  rank  off-hand:  he  se- 
lects and  leads,  or  rather  he  hesitates  and 
gropes. 

The  breaking  of  the  silk  ribbon  is  not  very 
important  either.  I  remove  a  caterpillar 
from  the  middle  of  the  file.  With  my  scis- 
sors, so  as  not  to  cause  a  commotion  in  the 
ranks,  I  cut  the  piece  of  ribbon  on  which  he 
stood  and  clear  away  every  thread  of  it.  As 
a  result  of  this  breach,  the  procession  ac- 
quires two  marching  leaders,  each  independent 
of  the  other.  It  may  be  that  the  one  in  the 
rear  joins  the  file  ahead  of  him,  from  which 
he  is  separated  by  but  a  slender  interval;  in 
that  case,  things  return  to  their  original  con- 
dition. More  frequently,  the  two  parts  do  not 
become  reunited.  In  that  case,  we  have  two 
distinct  processions,  each  of  which  wanders 
where  it  pleases  and  diverges  from  the  other. 
Nevertheless,  both  will  be  able  to  return  to 
the  nest  by  discovering  sooner  or  later,  in  the 
course  of  their  peregrinations,  the  ribbon  on 
the  other  side  of  the  break. 

These  two  experiments  are  only  moderately 
68 


The  Processionary :  the  Procession 

interesting.  I  have  thought  out  another,  one 
more  fertile  in  possibilities.  I  propose  to 
make  the  caterpillars  describe  a  close  circuit, 
after  the  ribbons  running  from  it  and  liable 
to  bring  about  a  change  of  direction  have  been 
destroyed.  The  locomotive  engine  pursues  its 
invariable  course  so  long  as  it  is  not  shunted 
on  to  a  branch-line.  If  the  Processionaries 
find  the  silken  rail  always  clear  in  front  of 
them,  with  no  switches  anywhere,  will  they 
continue  on  the  same  track,  will  they  persist 
in  following  a  road  that  never  comes  to  an 
end?  What  we  have  to  do  is  to  produce  this 
circuit,  which  is  unknown  under  ordinary  con- 
ditions, by  artificial  means. 

The  first  idea  that  suggests  itself  is  to  seize 
with  the  forceps  the  silk  ribbon  at  the  back 
of  the  train,  to  bend  it  without  shaking  it  and 
to  bring  the  end  of  it  ahead  of  the  file.  If 
the  caterpillar  marching  in  the  van  steps  upon 
it,  the  thing  is  done :  the  others  will  follow 
him  faithfully.  The  operation  is  very  simple 
in  theory  but  very  difficult  in  practice  and 
produces  no  useful  results.  The  ribbon,  which 
is  extremely  slight,  breaks  under  the  weight  of 
the  grains  of  sand  that  stick  to  it  and  are 
lifted  with  it.  If  it  does  not  break,  the  cater- 
69 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

pill  rs  at  the  back,  however  delicately  we 
may  go  to  work,  feel  a  disturbance  which 
makes  them  curl  up  or  even  let  go. 

There  is  a  yet  greater  difficulty:  the  leader 
refuses  the  ribbon  laid  before  him;  the  cut 
end  makes  him  distrustful.  Failing  to  see  the 
regular,  uninterrupted  road,  he  slants  off  to 
the  right  or  left,  he  escapes  at  a  tangent.  If 
I  try  to  interfere  and  to  bring  him  back  to 
the  path  of  my  choosing,  he  persists  in  his  re- 
fusal, shrivels  up,  does  not  budge;  and  soon 
the  whole  procession  is  in  confusion.  We 
will  not  insist:  the  method  is  a  poor  one,  very 
wasteful  of  effort  for  at  best  a  problematical 
success. 

We  ought  to  interfere  as  little  as  possible 
and  obtain  a  natural  closed  circuit.  Can  it 
be  done?  Yes.  It  lies  in  our  power,  without 
the  least  meddling,  to  see  a  procession  march 
along  a  perfect  circular  track.  I  owe  this  re- 
sult, which  is  eminently  deserving  of  our  at- 
tention, to  pure  chance. 

On  the  shelf  with  the  layer  of  sand  in  which 
the  nests  are  planted  stand  some  big  palm- 
vases  measuring  nearly  a  yard  and  a  half  in 
circumference  at  the  top.  The  caterpillars 
often  scale  the  sides  and  climb  up  to  the 
70 


The  Processionary  :  the  Procession 

moulding  which  forms  a  cornice  around  the 
opening.  This  place  suits  them  for  their  pro 
cessions,  perhaps  because  of  the  absolute  firm- 
ness of  the  surface,  where  there  is  no  fear 
of  landslides,  as  on  the  loose,  sandy  soil  be- 
low; and  also,  perhaps,  because  of  the  hori- 
zontal position,  which  is  favorable  to  repose 
after  the  fatigue  of  the  ascent.  It  provides 
me  with  a  circular  track  all  ready-made.  I 
have  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  an  occasion 
propitious  to  my  plans.  This  occasion  is  not 
long  in  coming. 

On  the  3Oth  of  January,  1896,  a  little  be- 
fore twelve  o'clock  in  the  day,  I  discover  a 
numerous  troop  making  their  way  up  and 
gradually  reaching  the  popular  cornice.  Slow- 
ly, in  single  file,  the  caterpillars  climb  the 
great  vase,  mount  the  ledge  and  advance  in 
regular  procession,  while  others  are  constantly 
arriving  and  continuing  the  series.  I  wait  for 
the  string  to  close  up,  that  is  to  say,  for  the 
leader,  who  keeps  following  the  circular 
moulding,  to  return  to  the  point  from  which 
he  started.  My  object  is  achieved  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  The  closed  circuit  is  realized 
magnificently,  in  something  very  nearJy  ap- 
proaching a  circle. 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

The  next  thing  is  to  get  rid  of  the  rest 
of  the  ascending  column,  which  would  disturb 
the  fine  order  of  the  procession  by  an  excess 
of  newcomers;  it  is  also  important  that  we 
should  do  away  with  all  the  silken  paths,  both 
new  and  old,  that  can  put  the  cornice  into 
communication  with  the  ground.  With  a 
thick  hair-pencil  I  sweep  away  the  surplus 
climbers;  with  a  big  brush,  one  that  leaves 
no  smell  behind  it — for  this  might  after- 
wards prove  confusing — I  carefully  rub 
down  the  vase  and  get  rid  of  every 
thread  which  the  caterpillars  have  laid 
on  the  march.  When  these  prepara- 
tions are  finished,  a  curious  sight  awaits 
us. 

In  the  uninterrupted  circular  procession 
there  is  no  longer  a  leader.  Each  caterpillar 
is  preceded  by  another  on  whose  heels  he  fol- 
lows, guided  by  the  silk  track,  the  work  of 
the  whole  party;  he  again  has  a  companion 
close  behind  him,  following  him  in  the  same 
orderly  way.  And  this  is  repeated  without 
variation  throughout  the  length  of  the  chain. 
None  commands,  or  rather  none  modifies  the 
trail  according  to  his  fancy;  all  obey,  trusting 
in  the  guide  who  ought  normally  to  lead  the 

72 


The  Processionary :  the  Procession 

march  and  who  in  reality  has  been  abolished 
by  my  trickery. 

From  the  first  circuit  of  the  edge  of  the 
tub  the  rail  of  silk  has  been  laid  in  position 
and  is  soon  turned  into  a  narrow  ribbon  by 
the  procession,  which  never  ceases  dribbling 
its  thread  as  it  goes.  The  rail  is  simply 
doubled  and  has  no  branches  anywhere,  for 
my  brush  has  destroyed  them  all.  What  will 
the  caterpillars  do  on  this  deceptive,  closed 
path?  Will  they  walk  endlessly  round  and 
round  until  their  strength  gives  out  entirely? 

The  old  schoolmen  were  fond  of  quoting 
Buridan's1  Ass,  that  famous  Donkey  who, 
when  placed  between  two  bundles  of  hay, 
starved  to  death  because  he  was  unable  to 
decide  in  favour  of  either  by  breaking  the 
equilibrium  between  two  equal  but  opposite 
attractions.  They  slandered  the  worthy  ani- 
mal. The  Ass,  who  is  no  more  foolish  than 
any  one  else,  would  reply  to  the  logical  snare 
by  feasting  off  both  bundles.  Will  my  cater- 

1Jean  Buridan  (circa  i^oo-circa  1360),  a  famous 
scholastic  doctor,  who  was  several  times  rector  of  the 
university  of  Paris  and  subsequently  founded  the  uni- 
versity of  Vienna.  He  forms  the  subject  of  many 
legends,  including  that  of  the  argument  known  by  his 
name,  of  which  no  trace  is  to  be  found  in  any  of  his 
works. — Translator's  Note. 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

pillars  show  a  little  of  his  mother  wit?  Will 
they,  after  many  attempts,  be  able  to  break 
the  equilibrium  of  their  closed  circuit,  which 
keeps  them  on  a  road  without  a  turning? 
Will  they  make  up  their  minds  to  swerve  to 
this  side  or  that,  which  is  the  only  method  of 
reaching  their  bundle  of  hay,  the  green  branch 
yonder,  quite  near,  not  two  feet  oft  ? 

I  thought  that  they  would  and  I  was 
wrong.  I  said  to  myself: 

"The  procession  will  go  on  turning  for 
some  time,  for  an  hour,  two  hours  perhaps; 
then  the  caterpillars  will  perceive  their  mis- 
take. They  will  abandon  the  deceptive  road 
and  make  their  descent  somewhere  or  other." 

That  they  should  remain  up  there,  hard 
pressed  by  hunger  and  the  lack  of  cover, 
when  nothing  prevented  them  from  going 
away,  seemed  to  me  inconceivable  imbecility. 
Facts,  however,  forced  me  to  accept  the  in- 
credible. Let  us  describe  them  in  detail. 

The  circular  procession  begins,  as  I  have 
said,  on  the  3Oth  of  January,  about  midday, 
in  splendid  weather.  The  caterpillars  march 
at  an  even  pace,  each  touching  the  stern  of  the 
one  in  front  of  him.  The  unbroken  chain 
eliminates  the  leader  with  his  changes  of  direc- 

74 


The  Processionary:  the  Procession 

tion;  and  all  follow  mechanically,  as  faithful 
to  their  circle  as  are  the  hands  of  a  watch. 
The  headless  file  has  no  liberty  left,  no  will; 
it  has  become  mere  clock-work.  And  this 
continues  for  hours  and  hours.  My  success 
goes  far  beyond  my  wildest  suspicions.  I 
stand  amazed  at  it,  or  rather  I  am  stupefied. 

Meanwhile,  the  multiplied  circuits  change 
the  original  rail  into  a  superb  ribbon  a  twelfth 
of  an  inch  broad.  I  can  easily  see  it  glittering 
on  the  red  ground  of  the  pot.  The  day  is 
drawing  to  a  close  and  no  alteration  has  yet 
taken  place  in  the  position  of  the  trail.  A 
striking  proof  confirms  this. 

The  trajectory  is  not  a  plane  curve,  but  one 
which,  at  a  certain  point,  deviates  and  goes 
down  a  little  way  to  the  lower  surface  of  the 
cornice,  returning  to  the  top  some  eight  inches 
farther.  I  marked  these  two  points  of  devia- 
tion in  pencil  on  the  vase  at  the  outset.  Well, 
all  that  afternoon  and,  more  conclusive  still, 
on  the  following  days,  right  to  the  end  of  this 
mad  dance,  I  see  the  string  of  caterpillars  dip 
under  the  ledge  at  the  first  point  and  come 
to  the  top  again  at  the  second.  Once  the  first 
thread  is  laid,  the  road  to  be  pursued  is  perma- 
nently established. 

75 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

If  the  road  does  not  vary,  the  speed  does. 
I  measure  nine  centimetres1  a  minute  as  the 
average  distance  covered.  But  there  are  more 
or  less  lengthy  halts;  the  pace  slackens  at 
times,  especially  when  the  temperature  falls. 
At  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  walk  is  little 
more  than  a  lazy  swaying  of  the  body.  I 
foresee  an  early  halt,  in  consequence  of  the 
cold,  of  fatigue  and  doubtless  also  of 
hunger. 

Grazing-time  has  arrived.  The  caterpil- 
lars have  come  crowding  from  all  the  nests 
in  the  greenhouse  to  browse  upon  the  pine- 
branches  planted  by  myself  beside  the  silken 
purses.  Those  in  the  garden  do  the  same, 
for  the  temperature  is  mild.  The  others, 
lined  up  along  the  earthenware  cornice,  would 
gladly  take  part  in  the  feast;  they  are  bound 
to  have  an  appetite  after  a  ten  hours'  walk. 
The  branch  stands  green  and  tempting  not  a 
hand's  breadth  away.  To  reach  it  they  need 
but  go  down;  and  the  poor  wretches,  foolish 
slaves  of  their  ribbon  that  they  are,  cannot 
make  up  their  minds  to  do  so.  I  leave  the 
famished  ones  at  half-past  ten,  persuaded  that 
they  will  take  counsel  with  their  pillow  and 
*$l/2  inches. — Translator's  Note. 


The  Processionary :  the  Procession 

that  on  the  morrow  things  will  have  resumed 
their  ordinary  course. 

I  was  wrong.  I  was  expecting  too  much 
of  them  when  I  accorded  them  that  faint 
gleam  of  intelligence  which  the  tribulations  of 
a  distressful  stomach  ought,  one  would  think, 
to  have  aroused.  I  visit  them  at  dawn.  They 
are  lined  up  as  on  the  day  before,  but  motion- 
less. When  the  air  grows  a  little  warmer, 
they  shake  off  their  torpor,  revive  and  start 
walking  again.  The  circular  procession  be- 
gins anew,  like  that  which  I  have  already 
seen.  There  is  nothing  more  and  nothing  less 
to  be  noted  in  their  machine-like  obstinacy. 

This  time  it  is  a  bitter  night.  A  cold  snap 
has  supervened,  was  indeed  foretold  in  the 
evening  by  the  garden  caterpillars,  who  re- 
fused to  come  out  despite  appearances  which 
to  my  duller  senses  seemed  to  promise  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  fine  weather.  At  daybreak 
the  rosemary-walks  are  all  asparkle  with  rime 
and  for  the  second  time  this  year  there  is  a 
sharp  frost.  The  large  pond  in  the  garden 
is  frozen  over.  What  can  the  caterpillars  in 
the  conservatory  be  doing?  Let  us  go  and 
see. 

All  are  ensconced  in  their  nests,  except  the 

77 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

stubborn  processionists  on  the  edge  of  the 
vase,  who,  deprived  of  shelter  as  they  are, 
seem  to  have  spent  a  very  bad  night.  I  find 
them  clustered  in  two  heaps,  without  any  at- 
tempt at  order.  They  have  suffered  less  from 
the  cold,  thus  huddled  together. 

'Tis  an  ill  wind,  that  blows  nobody  any 
good.  The  severity  of  the  night  has  caused 
the  ring  to  break  into  two  segments  which 
will,  perhaps,  afford  a  chance  of  safety.  Each 
group,  as  it  revives  and  resumes  its  walk,  will 
presently  be  headed  by  a  leader  who,  not  being 
obliged  to  follow  a  caterpillar  in  front  of  him, 
will  possess  some  liberty  of  movement  and 
perhaps  be  able  to  make  the  procession  swerve 
to  one  side.  Remember  that,  in  the  ordinary 
processions,  the  caterpillar  walking  ahead  acts 
as  a  scout.  While  the  others,  if  nothing  oc- 
curs to  create  excitement,  keep  to  their  ranks, 
he  attends  to  his  duties  as  a  leader  and  is  con- 
tinually turning  his  head  to  this  side  and  that, 
investigating,  seeking,  groping,  making  his 
choice.  And  things  happen  as  he  decides :  the 
band  follows  him  faithfully.  Remember  also 
that,  even  on  a  road  which  has  already  been 
travelled  and  beribboned,  the  guiding  cater- 
pillar continues  to  explore. 
78 


The  Processionary :  the  Procession 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  Proces- 
sionaries  who  have  lost  their  way  on  the  ledge 
will  find  a  chance  of  safety  here.  Let  us 
watch  them.  On  recovering  from  their  tor- 
por, the  two  groups  line  up  by  degrees  into 
two  distinct  files.  There  are  therefore  two 
leaders,  free  to  go  where  they  please,  inde- 
pendent of  each  other.  Will  they  succeed  in 
leaving  the  enchanted  circle?  At  the  sight  of 
their  large  black  heads  swaying  anxiously 
from  side  to  side,  I  am  inclined  to  think  so 
for  a  moment.  But  I  am  soon  undeceived. 
As  the  ranks  fill  out,  the  two  sections 
of  the  chain  meet  and  the  circle  is  recon- 
stituted. The  momentary  leaders  once  more 
become  simple  subordinates;  and  again  the 
caterpillars  march  round  and  round  all 
day. 

For  the  second  time  in  succession,  the  night, 
which  is  very  calm  and  magnificently  starry, 
brings  a  hard  frost.  In  the  morning  the  Pro- 
cessionaries  on  the  tub,  the  only  ones  who 
have  camped  out  unsheltered,  are  gathered 
into  a  heap  which  largely  overflows  both  sides 
of  the  fatal  ribbon.  I  am  present  at  the 
awakening  of  the  numbed  ones.  The  first  to 
take  the  road  is,  as  luck  will  have  it,  outside 

79 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

the  track.  Hesitatingly  he  ventures  into  un- 
known ground.  He  reaches  the  top  of  the 
rim  and  descends  upon  the  other  side  on  the 
earth  in  the  vase.  He  is  followed  by  six 
others,  no  more.  Perhaps  the  rest  of  the 
troop,  who  have  not  fully  recovered  from 
their  nocturnal  torpor,  are  to  lazy  to  bestir 
themselves. 

The  result  of  this  brief  delay  is  a  return 
to  the  old  track.  The  caterpillars  embark  on 
the  silken  trail  and  the  circular  march  is  re- 
sumed, this  time  in  the  form  of  a  ring  with 
a  gap  in  it.  There  is  no  attempt,  however,  to 
strike  a  new  course  on  the  part  of  the  guide 
whom  this  gap  has  placed  at  the  head.  A 
chance  of  stepping  outside  the  magic  circle  has 
presented  itself  at  last;  and  he  does  not  kno\\ 
how  to  avail  himself  of  it. 

As  for  the  caterpillars  who  have  made  their 
way  to  the  inside  of  the  vase,  their  lot  is  hard- 
ly improved.  They  climb  to  the  top  of  the 
palm,  starving  and  seeking  for  food.  Finding 
nothing  to  eat  that  suits  them,  they  retrace 
their  steps  by  following  the  thread  which  they 
have  left  on  the  way,  climb  the  ledge  of  the 
pot,  strike  the  procession  again  and,  without 
further  anxiety,  slip  back  into  the  r;ir  - 
80 


The  Procession  ary:  the  Procession 

Once  more  the  ring  is  complete,  once  more 
the  circle  turns  and  turns. 

Then  when  will  the  deliverance  come? 
There  is  a  legend  tliat  tells  of  poor  souls 
dragged  along  in  an  endless  round  until  the 
hellish  charm  is  broken  by  a  drop  of  holy 
water.  What  drop  will  good  fortune  sprinkle 
on  my  Processionaries  to  dissolve  their  circle 
and  bring  them  back  to  the  nest?  I  see  only 
two  means  of  conjuring  the  spell  and  ob- 
taining a  release  from  the  circuit.  These  two 
means  are  two  painful  ordeals.  A  strange 
linking  of  cause  and  effect :  from  sorrow  and 
wretchedness  good  is  to  come. 

And,  first,  shrivelling  as  the  result  of  cold. 
The  caterpillars  gather  together  without  any 
order,  heap  themselves  some  on  the  path, 
some,  more  numerous  these,  outside  it. 
Among  the  latter  there  may  be,  sooner  or 
later,  some  revolutionary  who,  scorning  the 
beaten  track,  will  trace  out  a  new  road  and 
lead  the  troop  back  home.  We  have  just 
seen  an  instance  of  it.  Seven  penetrated  to 
the  interior  of  the  vase  and  climbed  the  palm. 
True,  it  was  an  attempt  with  no  result,  but 
still  an  attempt.  For  complete  success,  all 
that  need  be  done  would  have  been  to  take  the 
Si 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

opposite  slope.  An  even  chance  is  a  great 
thing.  Another  time  we  shall  be  more  suc- 
cessful. 

In  the  second  place,  the  exhaustion  due  to 
fatigue  and  hunger.  A  lame'  one  stops, 
unable  to  go  farther.  In  front  of  the  de- 
faulter the  procession  still  continues  to  wend 
its  way  for  a  short  time.  The  ranks  close 
up  and  an  empty  space  appears.  On  coming 
to  himself  and  resuming  the  march,  the  cater- 
pillar who  has  caused  the  breach  becomes  a 
leader,  having  nothing  before  him.  The  least 
desire  for  emancipation  is  all  that  he  wants 
to  make  him  launch  the  band  into  a  new  path 
which  perhaps  will  be  the  saving  path. 

In  short,  when  the  Processionaries'  train 
is  in  difficulties,  what  it  needs,  unlike  ours,  is 
to  run  off  the  rails.  The  side-tracking  is  left 
to  the  caprice  of  a  leader  who  alone  is  capable 
of  turning  to  the  right  or  left;  and  this  .leader 
is  absolutely  non-existent  so  long  as  the  ring 
remains  unbroken.  Lastly,  the  breaking  of  the 
circle,  the  one  stroke  of  luck,  is  the  result  of 
a  chaotic  halt,  caused  principally  by  excess  of 
fatigue  or  cold. 

The  liberating  accident,  especially  that  of 
fatigue,  occurs  fairly  often.  In  the  course  of 
82 


The  Process! on ary:  the  Procession 

the  same  day,  the  moving  circumference  is 
cut  up  several  times  into  two  or  three  sec- 
tions; but  continuity  soon  returns  and  no 
change  takes  place.  Things  go  on  just  the 
same.  The  bold  innovator  who  is  to  save  the 
situation  has  not  yet  had  his  inspiration. 

There  is  nothing  new  on  the  fourth  day, 
after  an  icy  night  like  the  previous  one;  no- 
thing to  tell  except  the  following  detail.  Yes- 
terday I  did  not  remove  the  trace  left  by  the 
few  caterpillars  who  made  their  way  to  the 
inside  of  the  vase.  This  trace,  together  with 
a  junction  connecting  it  with  the  circular  road. 
is  discovered  in  the  course  of  the  morning. 
Half  the  troop  takes  advantage  of  it  to  visit 
the  earth  in  the  pot  and  climb  the  palm;  the 
other  half  remains  on  the  ledge  and  continues 
to  walk  along  the  old  rail.  In  the  afternoon 
the  band  of  emigrants  rejoins  the  others,  the 
circuit  is  completed  and  things  return  to  their 
original  condition. 

We  come  to  the  fifth  day.  The  night 
frost  becomes  more  intense,  without  however 
as  yet  reaching  the  greenhouse.  It  is  fol- 
lowed by  bright  sunshine  in  a  calm  and  limpid 
sky.  As  soon  as  the  sun's  rays  have  warmed 
the  panes  a  little,  the  caterpillars,  lying  in 

83 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

heaps,  wake  up  and  resume  their  evolutions 
on  the  ledge  of  the  vase.  This  time  the  fine 
order  of  the  beginning  is  disturbed  and  a  cert- 
ain disorder  becomes  manifest,  apparently  an 
omen  of  deliverance  near  at  hand.  The 
scouting-path  inside  the  vase,  which  was  up- 
holstered in  silk  yesterday  and  the  day  before, 
is  to-day  followed  to  its  origin  on  the  rim 
by  a  part  of  the  band  and  is  then  abandoned 
after  a  short  loop.  The  other  caterpillars 
follow  the  usual  ribbon.  The  result  of  this 
bifurcation  is  two  almost  equal  files,  walking 
along  the  ledge  in  the  same  direction,  at  a 
short  distance  from  each  other,  sometimes 
meeting,  separating  farther  on,  in  even7  case 
with  some  lack  of  order. 

Weariness  increases  the  confusion.  The 
crippled,  who  refuse  to  go  on,  are  many. 
Breaches  increase;  files  are  split  up  into  sec- 
tions each  of  which  has  its  leader,  who  pokes 
the  front  of  his  body  this  way  and  that  to 
explore  the  ground.  Everything  seems  to 
point  to  the  disintegration  which  will  bring 
safety.  My  hopes  are  once  more  disap- 
pointed. Before  the  night  the  single  file  is 
reconstituted  and  the  invincible  gyration  re- 
sumed. 

84 


The  Processionary:  the  Procession 

Heat  comes,  just  as  suddenly  as  the  cold 
did.  To-day,  the  4th  of  February,  is  a  beauti- 
ful,  mild  day.  The  greenhouse  is  full  of 
life.  Numerous  festoons  of  caterpillars,  is- 
suing from  the  nests,  meander  along  the  sand 
on  the  shelf.  Above  them,  at  every  moment, 
the  ring  on  the  ledge  of  the  vase  breaks  up 
and  comes  together  again.  For  the  first  time 
I  see  daring  leaders  who,  drunk  with  heat, 
standing  only  on  their  hinder  prolegs  at  the 
extreme  edge  of  the  earthenware  rim,  fling 
themselves  forward  into  space,  twisting  about, 
sounding  the  depths.  The  endeavour  is  fre- 
quently repeated,  while  the  whole  troop  stops. 
The  caterpillars'  heads  give  sudden  jerks; 
their  bodies  wriggle. 

One  of  the  pioneers  decides  to  take  the 
plunge.  He  slips  under  the  ledge.  Four  fol- 
low him.  The  others,  still  confiding  in  the 
perfidious  silken  path,  dare  not  copy  him  and 
continue  to  go  along  the  old  road. 

The  short  string  detached  from  the  general 
chain  gropes  about  a  great  deal,  hesitates  long 
on  the  side  of  the  vase;  it  goes  half-way  down, 
then  climbs  up  again  slantwise,  rejoins  and 
takes  its  place  in  the  procession.  This  time 
the  attempt  has  failed,  though  at  the  foot  of 

85 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

the  vase,  not  nine  inches  away,  there  lay  a 
bunch  of  pine-needles  which  I  had  placed 
there  with  the  object  of  enticing  the  hungry 
ones.  Smell  and  sight  told  them  nothing. 
Near  as  they  were  to  the  goal,  they  went  up 
again. 

No  matter,  the  endeavour  has  its  uses. 
Threads  were  laid  on  the  way  and  will  serve 
as  a  lure  to  further  enterprise.  The  road  of 
deliverance  has  its  first  landmarks.  And  two 
days  later,  on  the  eighth  day  of  the  experi- 
ment, the  caterpillars — now  singly,  anon  in 
small  groups,  then  again  in  strings  of  some 
length — come  down  from  the  ledge  by 
following  the  staked-out  path.  At  sun- 
set the  last  of  the  laggards  is  back  in  the 
nest. 

Now  for  a  little  arithmetic.  For  seven 
times  twenty-four  hours  the  caterpillars  have 
remained  on  the  ledge  of  the  vase.  To  make 
an  ample  allowance  for  stops  due  to  the  weari- 
ness of  this  one  or  that  and  above  all  for  the 
rest  taken  during  the  colder  hours  of  the  night, 
we  will  deduct  one-half  of  the  time.  This 
leaves  eighty-four  hours'  walking.  The 
average  pace  is  nine  centimetres1  a  minute. 
13^2  inches. — Translator's  Note. 
86 


The  Processionary  :  the  Procession 

The  aggregate  distance  covered,  therefore,  is 
453  metres,  a  good  deal  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  which  is  a  great  walk  for  these 
little  crawlers.  The  circumference  of  the  vase, 
the  perimeter  of  the  track,  is  exactly  I  m.  35.  l 
Therefore  the  circle  covered,  always  in  the 
same  direction  and  always  without  result, 
was  described  three  hundred  and  thirty-five 
times. 

These  figures  surprise  me,  though  I  am 
already  familiar  with  the  abysmal  stupidity 
of  insects  as  a  class  whenever  the  least  acci- 
dent occurs.  I  feel  inclined  to  ask  myself 
whether  the  Processionaries  were  not  kept  up 
there  so  long  by  the  difficulties  and  dangers 
of  the  descent  rather  than  by  the  lack  of  any 
gleam  of  intelligence  in  their  benighted  minds. 
The  facts,  however,  reply  that  the  descent  is 
as  easy  as  the  ascent. 

The  caterpillar  has  a  very  supple  back,  well 
adapted  for  twisting  round  projections  or  slip- 
^ 


ease  vertically  or  horizontally,  with  his  back 
down  or  up.  Besides,  he  never  mov^S  fui- 
ward  until  tie  has  ftxed  his  thread  to  the 

ground.     With   this   support  to  his   feet,   he 
14  feet  5  inches.  —  Translator's  Note. 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

has  no  falls  to  fear,  no  matter  what  his 
position. 

I  had  a  proof  of  this  before  my  eyes  du- 
ring a  whole  week.  As  I  have  already  said, 
the  track,  instead  of  keeping  on  one  level, 
bends  twice,  dips  at  a  certain  point  under  the 
ledge  of  the  vase  and  reappears  at  the  top  a 
little  farther  on.  At  one  part  of  the  cir- 
cuit, therefore,  the  procession  walks  on  the 
lower  surface  of  the  rim;  and  this  inverted 
position  implies  so  little  discomfort  or  dan- 
ger that  it  is  renewed  at  each  turn  for  all 
the  caterpillars  from  first  to  last. 

It  is  out  of  the  question  then  to  suggest 
the  dread  of  a  false  step  on  the  edge  of  the 
rim  which  is  so  nimbly  turned  at  each  point  of 
inflexion.  The  caterpillars  in  distress,  starved, 
shelterless,  chilled  with  cold  at  night,  cling 
obstinately  to  the  silk  ribbon  covered  hun- 
dreds of  times,  because  they  lack  the  rudi- 
mentary glimmers  of  reason  which  would 
advice  them  to  abandon  it. 

Experience  and  reflection  are  not  in  their 
province.  The  ordeal  of  a  five  hundred  yards' 
march  and  three  to  four  hundred  turns  teach 
them  nothing;  and  it  takes  casual  circum- 
stances to  bring  them  back  to  the  nest.  They 


The  Processionary :  the  Procession 

would  perish  on  their  insidious  ribbon  if  the 
disorder  of  the  nocturnal  encampments  and 
the  halts  due  to  fatigue  did  not  cast  a  few 
threads  outside  the  circular  path.  Some  three 
or  four  move  along  these  trails,  laid -without 
an  object,  stray  a  little  way  and,  thanks  to 
their  wanderings,  prepare  the  descent,  which 
is  at  last  accomplished  in  short  strings  fa- 
voured by  chance. 

The  school  most  highly  honoured  to-day  is 
very  anxious  to  find  the  origin  of  reason  in 
the  dregs  of  the  animal  kingdom.  Let  me 
call  its  attention  to  the  Pine  Processionary 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    PINE    PROCESSIONARY :    METEOROLOGY 

IN  JANUARY  a  second  moult  occurs, 
leaving  the  caterpillar  less  fair  to  the  eye, 
while  at  the  same  time  endowing  him  with 
some  very  peculiar  organs.  When  the  mo- 
ment has  come  to  shed  their  skins,  the  Pro- 
cessionaries  cluster  higgledy-piggledy  on  the 
dome  of  the  nest  and  there,  if  the  weather 
be  mild,  remain  motionless  day  and  night.  It 
would  seem  as  though  the  fact  of  their  con- 
tact, of  their  mutual  discomfort,  while  thus 
heaped  together,  furnishes  a  resistance,  a  ful- 
crum, which  favours  the  process  of  excoriation. 
After  this  second  moult,  the  hairs  on  the 
middle  of  the  back  are  of  a  dull  reddish 
colour,  which  is  made  paler  still  by  the  inter- 
position of  numerous  Long  white  hairs.  But 
this  faded  costume  is  accompanied  by  the 
singular  organs  which  attracted  the  attention 
of  Reaumur,  who  was  greatly  perplexed  as 
to  their  function.  In  the  place  originally  oc- 
cupied by  the  scarlet  mosaic,  eight  segments 
of  the  caterpillar  are  now  cleft  by  a  broad 

00 


The  Processionary :  Meteorology 

transversal  gash,  a  sort  of  thick-lipped  mouth, 
which  opens  and  gapes  wide  at  the  caterpil- 
lar's will,  or  closes  without  leaving  a  visible 
trace. 

From  each  of  these  expanding  mouths  rises 
a  tumour  with  a  fine,  colourless  skin,  as  though 
the  creature  were  exposing  its  tender  inside 
and  inflating  it,  for  the  appearance  is  almost 
that  which  would  be  presented  by  the  viscera 
protruding  through  skin  incised  by  the  scalpel. 
Two  large  dark-brown  dots  occupy  the  front 
face  of  the  protuberance.  At  the  back  are 
two  short,  flat  tufts  of  russet  bristles,  which 
in  the  sunlight  shine  with  a  rich  brilliancy. 
All  around  is  a  radiating  border  of  long  white 
hairs,  spread  almost  flat. 

This  protuberance  is  extremely  sensitive. 
At  the  slightest  irritation  it  goes  in  again  and 
disappears  under  the  dark  integument.  In  its 
place  opens  an  oval  crater,  a  sort  of  huge 
stoma,  which  swiftly  brings  its  lips  together, 
closes  and  entirely  disappears.  The  long 
white  hairs  that  form  a  moustache  and  im- 
perial around  this  mouth  follow  the  move- 
ments of  the  contracting  lips.  After  first 
radiating  from  a  centre  and  lying  flat,  these 
hairs  rise  like  levelled  wheat  which  the  wind 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

has  caught  from  beneath  and  meet  to  form  a 
transversal  crest,  perpendicular  to  the  crea- 
ture's back. 

This  hairy  erection  produces  a  sudden 
modification  in  the  caterpillar's  aspect.  The 
red  shiny  bristles  have  disappeared,  buried 
under  the  dark  skin;  the  white  hairs,  now 
standing  on  end,  form  a  hirsute  mane;  an 
ashy  tinge  has  crept  into  the  general  colour 
of  the  costume. 

When  calm  is  restored,  as  soon  happens, 
the  slits  open  and  yawn  afresh ;  the  sensitive 
protuberances  emerge,  quick  to  disappear 
once  more  should  any  cause  for  alarm  occur. 
These  alternate  expansions  and  contractions 
are  rapidly  repeated.  I  provoke  them  at  will 
in  various  ways.  A  slight  puff  of  tobacco- 
smoke  immediately  causes  the  stomata  to 
yawn  and  the  protuberances  to  emerge.  One 
would  think  that  the  insect  was  putting  itself 
on  its  guard  and  displaying  some  special  ap- 
paratus of  information.  Before  long  the  pro- 
tuberances go  in  again.  A  second  puff  of 
smoke  brings  them  out  once  more.  But,  if 
the  smoke  is  too  abundant,  too  acrid,  the 
caterpillar  wriggles  and  writhes  without  open- 
ing his  apparatus. 


The  Processionary :  Meteorology 

Or  else  I  touch  one  or  other  of  these  un- 
covered protuberances,  very  delicately,  with 
a  bit  of  straw.  The  pimple  affected  imme- 
diately contracts,  draws  into  itself,  like  the 
horns  of  the  Snail,  and  is  replaced  by  a  ga- 
ping mouth,  which  in  its  turn  closes.  Usually, 
but  not  always,  the  segment  excited  by  the 
contact  of  my  straw  is  imitated  by  the  others, 
both  front  and  back,  which  close  their  ap- 
paratus one  by  one. 

When  undisturbed  and  in  repose,  the  cater- 
pillar generally  has  his  dorsal  slits  expanded; 
in  moving,  he  sometimes  opens  and  sometimes 
closes  them.  In  either  case  expansion  and 
contraction  are  frequently  repeated.  Con- 
stantly coming  together  and  retreating  under 
the  skin,  the  lips  of  the  mouth-like  opening 
therefore  end  by  losing  their  brittle  mous- 
taches of  russet  hairs,  which  break  off.  In  this 
way  a  sort  of  dust  collects  at  the  bottom  of 
the  crater,  a  dust  formed  of  broken  hairs, 
which,  thanks  to  their  barbs,  soon  collect  into 
little  tufts.  When  the  slit  expands  rather  sud- 
denly, the  central  projection  shoots  out  on 
the  insect's  sides  its  load  of  hairy  remnants, 
which  the  least  breath  blows  into  a  cloud  of 
golden  atoms  highly  disagreeable  to  the  ob- 

93 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

server.  I  shall  have  something  to  say 
presently  of  the  itch  to  which  he  is  at  such 
times  exposed. 

Are  these  peculiar  stomata  designed  merely 
to  collect  the  adjoining  bristles  and  to  grind 
them  to  powder?  Are  these  fine-skinned 
papillae,  which  inflate  and  ascend  from  the 
depths  of  their  hiding-place,  intended  to  get 
rid  of  the  accumulation  of  broken  hairs?  Or 
is  it  the  sole  function  of  this  peculiar  ap- 
paratus to  prepare,  at  the  expense  of  the  cater- 
pillar's fleece,  an  irritant  dust  which  shall  act 
as  a  means  of  defence?  Nothing  tells  us  so. 

Certainly  the  caterpillar  is  not  armed 
against  the  enquirer  who  from  time  to  time 
takes  it  into  his  head  to  come  and  examine 
him  through  a  magnifying-glass.  It  is  even 
very  doubtful  whether  he  troubles  at  all  about 
those  passionate  caterpillar-lovers,  Calosoma 
sycophanta1  among  insects  and  the  Cuckoo 
among  birds.  Those  who  consume  such  fare 
have  a  stomach  expressly  fashioned  for  the 
purpose,  a  stomach  that  laughs  at  blistering 
hairs  and  possibly  finds  an  appetizing  stimu- 
lant in  their  sting.  No,  I  do  not  see  the  mo- 
tives that  prompted  the  Processionary  to 

1A  large  carnivorous  Beetle. — Translator's  Note. 
94 


The   Processionary :   Meteorology 

cleave  his  back  with  so  many  slits,  if  he  merely 
strips  himself  of  his  hair  to  throw  an  irri- 
tating dust  in  our  eyes.  There  must  certainly 
be  something  else  in  question. 

Reaumur  mentions  these  openings,  of 
which  he  made  a  brief  study.  He  calls  them 
stigmata  and  is  inclined  to  take  them  for  ex- 
ceptional breathing-holes.  That  they  are  not, 
O  my  master;  no  insect  contrives  air-holes  on 
its  back!  Moreover,  the  magnifying-glass  re- 
veals no  channel  of  communication  with  the 
interior.  Respiration  plays  no  part  here;  the 
solution  of  the  enigma  must  lie  elsewhere. 

The  protuberances  that  rise  from  those  ex- 
panded cavities  are  formed  of  a  soft,  pale, 
hairless  membrane,  which  gives  the  impression 
of  a  visceral  hernia,  as  though  the  caterpillar 
were  wounded  and  exposing  its  delicate  en- 
trails to  the  air.  The  sensitiveness  just  here 
is  great.  The  lightest  touch  with  the  point 
of  a  hair-pencil  causes  the  immediate  in- 
drawing  of  the  protuberances  and  the  closing 
of  the  containing  lips. 

The  touch  of  a  solid  object  even  is  not 
essential.  I  pick  up  a  tiny  drop  of  water  on 
the  point  of  a  pin  and,  without  shaking  it  off, 
present  this  drop  to  the  sensitive  projection. 

95 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

At  the  moment  when  contact  occurs  the  ap- 
paratus contracts  and  closes  up.  The  recoil 
of  the  Snail's  horns,  withdrawing  the  visual 
and  olfactory  organs  into  their  sheaths,  is  no 
prompter. 

Everything  seems  to  prove  that  these  op- 
tional tumours,  appearing  and  disappearing 
at  the  caterpillar's  will,  are  instruments  of 
sensorial  perception.  The  caterpillar  exposes 
them  to  obtain  information;  he  shelters  them 
under  his  skin  to  preserve  their  delicate  func- 
tions. Now  what  is  it  that  they  perceive? 
This  is  a  difficult  question,  in  which  the  habits 
of  the  Processionary  alone  can  afford  us  a 
little  guidance. 

During  the  whole  winter,  the  Pine  Cater- 
pillars are  active  only  at  night.  In  the  day- 
time, when  the  weather  is  fine,  they  readily 
repair  to  the  dome  of  the  nest  and  there  re- 
main motionless,  gathered  into  heaps.  It  is 
the  hour  of  the  open-air  siesta,  under  the  pale 
December  and  January  sun.  As  yet  none 
leaves  the  home.  It  is  quite  late  in  the  even- 
ing, towards  nine  o'clock,  when  they  set  out, 
marching  in  an  irregular  procession,  to  browse 
on  the  leaves  of  the  branches  hard  by.  Their 
grazing  is  a  protracted  affair.  The  flock  re- 
96 


The  Processionary :  Meteorology 

turns  late,  some  time  after  midnight,  when 
the  temperature  falls  too  low. 

Secondly,  it  is  in  the  heart  of  winter,  du- 
ring the  roughest  months,  that  the  Proces- 
sionary displays  his  full  activity.  Indefatiga- 
bly  at  this  time  of  year  he  spins,  adding  each 
night  a  new  web  to  his  silken  tent;  at  this 
time,  whenever  the  weather  permits,  he  ven- 
tures abroad  on  the  neighbouring  boughs  to 
feed,  to  grow  and  to  renew  his  skein  of  silk. 

By  a  very  remarkable  exception,  the  harsh 
season  marked  by  inactivity  and  lethargic  re- 
pose in  other  insects  is  for  him  the  season  of 
bustle  and  labour,  on  condition,  of  course, 
that  the  inclemencies  of  the  weather  do  not 
exceed  certain  limits.  If  the  north  wind  blow 
too  violently,  so  that  it  is  like  to  sweep  the 
flock  away;  if  the  cold  be  too  piercing,  so  that 
there  is  a  risk  of  freezing  to  death;  if  it  snow, 
or  rain,  or  if  the  mist  thicken  into  an  icy 
drizzle,  the  caterpillars  prudently  stay  at 
home,  sheltering  under  their  weatherproof 
tent. 

It  would  be  convenient  to  some  extent  to 
foresee  these  inclemencies.  The  caterpillar 
dreads  them.  A  drop  of  rain  sets  him  in  a 
flutter;  a  snowflake  exasperates  him.  To 

97 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

start  for  the  grazing-grounds  at  dark  of  night, 
in  uncertain  weather,  would  be  dangerous,  for 
the  procession  goes  some  distance  and  travels 
slowly.  The  flock  would  fare  ill  before  re- 
gaining shelter  did  any  sudden  atmospheric 
trouble  supervene,  an  event  of  some  frequency 
in  the  bad  season  of  the  year.  So  that  he 
may  be  informed  in  this  particular  during  his 
nocturnal  winter  rambles,  can  the  Pine  Cater- 
pillar be  endowed  with  some  sort  of  meteoro- 
logical aptitudes?  Let  us  describe  how  the 
suspicion  occurred  to  me. 

Divulged  I  know  not  how,  my  rearing  of 
caterpillars  under  glass  acquired  a  certain  re- 
nown. It  was  talked  about  in  the  village. 
The  forest-ranger,  a  sworn  enemy  to  de- 
structive insects,  wanted  to  see  the  grazing  of 
the  famous  caterpillars,  of  whom  he  had  re- 
tained a  too  poignant  memory  ever  since  the 
day  when  he  gathered  and  destroyed  their 
nests  in  a  pine-wood  under  his  charge.  It 
was  arranged  that  he  should  call  the  same 
evening. 

He  arrives  at  the  appointed  hour,  accom- 
panied by  a  friend.  For  a  moment  we  sit 
and  chat  in  front  of  the  fire;  then,  when  the 
.clock  strikes  nine,  the  lantern  is  lit  and  we 
08 


The  Processionary :  Meteorology 

all  three  enter  the  greenhouse.  The  visitors 
are  eager  for  the  spectacle  of  which  they  have 
heard  such  wonderful  things,  while  I  am  cert- 
ain of  satisfying  their  curiosity. 

But,  but  ...  what  is  this?  Not  a  cater- 
pillar on  the  nests,  not  one  on  the  fresh  ration 
of  branches!  Last  night  and  on  the  previous 
nights  they  came  out  in  countless  numbers; 
to-night  not  one  reveals  himself.  Can  it  be 
that  they  are  merely  late  in  going  to  dinner? 
Can  their  habitual  punctuality  be  at  fault  be- 
cause appetite  has  not  yet  arrived?  We  must 
be  patient.  .  .  .  Ten  o'clock.  Nothing. 
Eleven.  Still  nothing.  Midnight  was  at  hand 
when  we  abandoned  our  watch,  convinced  that 
it  would  be  vain  to  prolong  the  sitting.  You 
can  imagine  what  an  abject  fool  I  looked 
at  having  thus  to  send  my  guests  away. 

Next  day  I  thought  that  I  dimly  perceived 
the  explanation  of  this  disappointment.  It 
rained  in  the  night  and  again  in  the  morning. 
Snow,  not  the  earliest  of  the  year,  but  so 
far  the  most  abundant,  whitened  the  brow  of 
the  Ventoux.1  Had  the  caterpillars,  more 

1The  highest  mountain  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Serignan.  Cf.  The  Hunting  Wasps,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre, 
translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chap,  xl 
— Translator's  .Vote. 

99 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

sensitive  than  any  of  us  to  atmospheric 
changes,  refused  to  venture  forth  because  they 
anticipated  what  was  about  to  happen  ?  Had 
they  foreseen  the  rain  and  the  snow,  which 
nothing  seemed  to  announce,  at  all  events  to 
us?  After  all,  why  not?  Let  us  continue  to 
observe  them  and  we  shall  see  whether  the 
coincidence  is  fortuitous  or  not. 

On  this  memorable  day,  therefore,  the  I3th 
of  December,  1895,  I  institute  the  caterpil- 
lars' meteorological  observatory.  I  have  at 
my  disposal  absolutely  none  of  the  apparatus 
dear  to  science,  not  even  a  modest  ther- 
mometer, for  my  unlucky  star  continues  in  the 
ascendant,  proving  as  unkind  to-day  as  when 
I  learnt  chemistry  with  pipe-bowls  for  cruci- 
bles and  bottles  that  once  contained  sweets  for 
retorts.  I  confine  myself  to  visiting  nightly 
the  Processionaries  in  the  greenhouse  and 
those  in  the  garden.  It  is  a  hard  task,  espe- 
cially as  I  have  to  go  to  the  far  end  of  the 
enclosure,  often  in  weather  when  one  would 
not  turn  a  Dog  out  of  doors.  I  set  down 
the  acts  of  the  caterpillars,  whether  they  come 
out  or  stay  at  home ;  I  note  the  state  of  the 
sky  during  the  day  and  at  the  moment  of  my 
evening  examination. 


The  Processionary  :  Meteorolog) 

To  this  list  I  add  the  meteorological  chart 
of  Europe  which  the  Temps  publishes  daily. 
If  I  want  more  precise  data,  I  request  the 
Normal  School  at  Avignon  to  send  me,  on 
occasions  of  violent  disturbances,-  the  barome- 
trical records  of  its  observatory.  These  are 
the  only  documents  at  my  disposal. 

Before  we  come  to  the  results  obtained,  let 
me  once  more  repeat  that  my  caterpillars' 
meteorological  institute  has  two  stations :  one 
in  the  greenhouse  and  one  in  the  open  air, 
on  the  pines  in  the  enclosure.  The  first,  pro- 
tected against  the  wind  and  rain,  is  that  which 
I  prefer:  it  provides  more  regular  and  more 
continuous  information.  In  fact,  the  open- 
air  caterpillars  often  enough  refuse  to  come 
out,  even  though  the  general  conditions  be 
favourable.  It  is  enough  to  keep  them  at 
home  if  there  be  too  strong  a  wind  shaking 
the  boughs,  or  even  a  little  moisture  dripping 
on  the  web  of  the  nests.  Saved  from  these 
two  perils,  the  greenhouse  caterpillars  have 
only  to  consider  atmospheric  incidents  of  a 
higher  order.  The  small  variations  escape 
them;  the  great  alone  make  an  impression  on 
them:  a  most  useful  point  for  the  observer 
and  going  a  long  way  towards  solving  the 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

problem  for  him.  The  colonies  under  glass, 
therefore,  provide  most  of  the  material  for  my 
notes;  the  colonies  in  the  open  air  add  their 
testimony,  which  is  not  always  quite  clear. 

Now  what  did  they  tell  me,  those  green- 
house caterpillars  who,  on  the  i3th  of  Decem- 
ber, refused  to  show  themselves  to  my  guest, 
the  forest-ranger?  The  rain  that  was  to  fall 
that  night  could  hardly  have  alarmed  them: 
they  were  so  well  sheltered.  The  snow  about 
to  whiten  Mont  Ventoux  was  nothing  to 
them:  it  was  so  far  away.  Moreover,  it  was 
neither  snowing  yet  nor  raining.  Some  ex- 
traordinary atmospheric  event,  profound  and 
of  vast  extent,  must  have  been  occurring. 
The  charts  in  the  Temps  and  the  bulletin  of 
the  Normal  School  told  me  as  much. 

A  cyclonic  disturbance,  coming  from  the 
British  Isles,  was  passing  over  our  district;  an 
atmospheric  depression  the  like  of  which  the 
season  had  not  as  yet  known,  had  spread  in 
our  direction,  reaching  us  on  the  i3th  and 
persisting,  in  a  more  or  less  accentuated  form, 
until  the  22nd.  At  Avignon  the  barometer 
suddenly  fell  half  an  inch,  to  29.1  in.,  on 
the  1 3th  and  lower  still,  to  29  in.,  on  the 
I9th. 


The  Processionary :  Meteorology 

During  this  period  of  ten  days,  the  garden 
caterpillars  made  no  sortie  on  the  pine-trees. 
True,  the  weather  was  changeable.  There 
were  a  few  showers  of  fine  rain  and  some 
violent  gusts  of  the  mistral;  but  more  fre- 
quently there  were  days  and  nights  when  the 
sky  was  superb  and  the  temperature  moder- 
ate. The  prudent  anchorites  would  not  al- 
low themselves  to  be  caught.  The  low  pres- 
sure peristed,  menacing  them;  and  so  they 
stopped  at  home. 

In  the  greenhouse  things  happen  rather  dif- 
ferently. Sorties  take  place,  but  the  staying-in 
days  are  still  more  numerous.  It  looks  as 
though  the  caterpillars,  alarmed  at  first  by  the 
unexpected  things  happening  overhead,  had 
reassured  themselves  and  resumed  work,  feel- 
ing nothing,  in  their  shelter,  of  what  they 
would  have  suffered  out  of  doors — rain,  snow 
and  furious  mistral  blasts — and  had  then  sus- 
pended their  work  again  when  the  threats  of 
bad  weather  increased. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  fairly  accurate  agree- 
ment between  the  oscillations  of  the  barome- 
ter and  the  decisions  of  the  herd.  When  the 
column  of  mercury  rises  a  little,  they  come 
out ;  when  it  falls  they  remain  at  home.  Thus 
103 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

on  the  1 9th,  the  night  of  the  lowest  press- 
ure, 29  in.,  not  a  caterpillar  ventures  out- 
side. 

As  the  wind  and  rain  can  have  no  effect 
on  my  colonies  under  glass,  one  is  led  to  sup- 
pose that  atmospheric  pressure,  with  its 
physiological  results,  so  difficult  to  define,  is 
here  the  principal  factor.  As  for  the  tem- 
perature, within  moderate  limits  there  is  no 
need  to  discuss  it.  The  Processionaries  have 
a  robust  constitution,  as  behoves  spinners  who 
work  in  the  open  air  in  midwinter.  However 
piercing  the  cold,  so  long  as  it  does  not  freeze, 
when  the  hour  comes  for  working  or  feeding 
they  spin  on  the  surface  of  the  nest  or  browse 
on  the. neighbouring  branches. 

Another  example.  According  to  the  me- 
teorological chart  in  the  Temps,  a  depression 
whose  centre  is  near  the  lies  Sanguinaires,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  Gulf  of  Ajaccio,  reaches 
my  neighbourhood,  with  a  minimum  of  29.2 
in.,  on  the  9th  of  January.  A  tempestuous 
wind  gets  up.  For  the  first  time  this  year 
there  is  a  respectable  frost.  The  ice  on  the 
large  pond  in  the  garden  is  two  or  three  inches 
thick.  This  wild  weather  lasts  for  five  days. 
Of  course,  the  garden  caterpillars  do  not 
104 


The  Processionary .  Meteorology 

sally  forth  on  the  pine-trees  while  these  are 
battered  by  such  a  gale. 

The  remarkable  part  of  the  business  is  that 
the  greenhouse  caterpillars  do  not  venture 
out  of  their  nests  either.  And  yet  for  them 
there  are  no  boughs  dangerously  shaken,  ro 
cold  piercing  beyond  endurance,  for  it  is  not 
freezing  under  the  glass.  What  keeps  them 
in  can  be  only  the  passage  of  that  wave  of 
depression.  On  the  I5th  the  storm  ceases; 
and  the  barometer  remains  between  29.6  and 
30  in.  for  the  rest  of  the  month  and  a  good 
part  of  February.  During  this  long  period 
there  are  magnificent  sorties  every  evening, 
especially  in  the  greenhouse. 

On  the  23rd  and  24th  of  February,  sud- 
denly the  Processionaries  stop  at  home  again, 
for  no  apparent  reason.  Of  the  six  nests 
under  cover,  only  two  have  a  few  rare  cater- 
pillars out  on  the  pine-branches,  while  previ- 
ously, in  the  case  of  all  six,  I  used  every  night 
to  see  the  leaves  bending  under  the  weight  of 
an  innumerable  multitude.  Warned  by  this 
forecast,  I  enter  in  my  notes: 

"Some  deep  depression  is  about  to  reach 
us." 

And  I  have  guessed  right.  Two  days  later, 
105 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

sure  enough,  the  meteorological  record  of  the 
Temps  gives  me  the  following  information: 
a  minimum  of  29.2  in.,  coming  from  the  Bay 
of  Biscay  on  the  22nd,  reaches  Algeria  on 
the  23rd  and  spreads  over  the  Provence 
coast  on  the  24th.  There  is  a  heavy  snow- 
fall at  Marseilles  on  the  25th. 

"The  ships,"  I  read  in  my  paper,  "present 
a  curious  spectacle,  with  their  yards  and  rig- 
ging white.  That  is  how  the  people  of  Mar- 
seilles, little  used  to  such  sights,  picture  Spitz- 
bergen  and  the  North  Pole." 

Here  certainly  is  the  gale  which  my  cater- 
pillars foresaw  when  they  refused  to  go  out 
last  night  and  the  night  before;  here  is  the 
centre  of  disturbance  which  revealed  itself  at 
Serignan  by  a  violent  and  icy  north  wind  on 
the  25th  and  the  following  days.  Again  I 
perceive  that  the  greenhouse  caterpillars  are 
alarmed  only  at  the  approach  of  the  wave 
of  atmospheric  disturbance.  Once  the  first 
uneasiness  caused  by  the  depression  had 
abated,  they  came  out  again,  on  the  25th  and 
the  following  days,  in  the  midst  of  the  gale 
as  though  nothing  extraordinary  were  hap- 
pening. 

106 


The  Processionary:  Meteorology 


From  the  sum  ofmvQHfrvifi°"fi 
that  t_he_Pine  ^rocessronary_jsj;rn  inently  sensi- 

tive    to    atmospheric    vicissitudes,    an    excel- 

lent   quality,    having    regard    to    his    way    of 

life    in    the   sharp   winter  nights.      He    fore- 

"sees    the    storm    which    would    imperil     his 


CUSlQn 

His  caaci 


capacity  for  scenting  bad  weather  very 
soon  won  the  confidence  of  the  household. 
When  we  had  to  go  into  Orange  to  renew  our 
provisions,  it  became  the  rule  to  consult  him 
the  night  before;  and,  according  to  his  ver- 
dict, we  went  or  stayed  at  home.  His  oracle 
never  deceived  us.  In  the  same  way,  simple 
folk  that  we  were,  we  used  in  the  old  days 
to  interrogate  the  Dor-beetle,1  another 
doughty  nocturnal  worker.  But,  a  little  de- 
moralized by  imprisonment  in  a  cage  and  ap- 
parently devoid  of  any  special  sensitive  ap- 
paratus, performing  his  evolutions,  moreover, 
in  the  mild  autumn  evenings,  the  celebrated 
Dung-beetle  could  never  rival  the  Pine  Cater- 
pillar, who  is  active  during  the  roughest  sea- 
son of  the  year  and  endowed,  as  everything 

lGeotrupes  stercorarius,  a  large  Dung-beetle.  Cf.  The 
Life  and  Love  of  the  Insect,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre,  translated 
by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos  :  chap,  ix  —  Translator's 
Note. 

107 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

would  seem  to  affirm,  with  organs  quick  to 
perceive  the  great  atmospheric  fluctuations. 

Rural  lore  abounds  in  meteorological  fore- 
casts derived  from  animals.  The  Cat,  sit- 
ting in  front  of  the  fire  and  washing  behind 
her  ears  with  a  saliva-smeared  paw,  fore- 
tells another  cold  snap;  the  Cock,  crowing  at 
unusual  hours,  announces  the  return  of  fine 
weather;  the  Guinea-fowl,  with  her  screech- 
ing, as  of  a  scythe  on  the  grindstone,  points  to 
rain;  the  Hen,  standing  on  one  leg,  her  plu- 
mage ruffled,  her  head  sunk  on  her  neck,  feels 
a  hard  frost  coming;  the  pretty  green  Tree- 
frog  inflates  his  throat  like  a  bladder  at 
the  approach  of  a  storm  and,  according  to 
the  Provencal  peasant,  says : 

"Ploiira,  ploiira;  it  will  rain,  it  will  rain!'* 

This  rustic  meteorology,  the  heritage  of  the 
centuries,  does  not  show  up  so  badly  beside 
our  scientific  meteorology. 

Are  not  we  ourselves  living  barometers? 
Every  veteran  complains  of  his  glorious 
scars  when  the  weather  is  about  to  break. 
One  man,  though  unwounded,  suffers  from 
insomnia  or  from  bad  dreams;  another, 
though  a  brain-worker,  cannot  drag  an  idea 
out  of  his  impotent  head.  Each  of  us,  in 
1 08 


The  Processionary :  Meteorology 

his  own  way,  is  tried  by  the  passage  of  those 
huge  funnels  which  form  in  the  atmosphere 
and  hatch  the  storm. 

Could  the  insect,  with  its  exceptionally 
delicate  organization,  escape  this  kind  of  im- 
pression? It  is  unbelievable.  The  insect, 
more  than  any  other  ceature,  should  be  an 
animated  meteorological  instrument,  as  truth- 
ful in  its  forecasts,  if  we  knew  how  to  read 
them,  as  the  lifeless  instruments  of  our  obser- 
vatories, with  their  mercury  and  their  catgut. 
All,  in  different  degrees,  possess  a  general  im- 
pressionability analogous  to  our  own  and  exer- 
cised without  the  aid  of  specific  organs.  Some, 
better-gifted  because  of  their  mode  of  life, 
might  well  be  furnished  with  special  meteoro- 
logical apparatus. 

The  Pine  Processionary  seems  to  belong  to 
this  number.  In  his  second  costume,  when 
the  segments  bear  on  their  dorsal  faces  an 
elegant  red  mosaic,  he  differs  apparently  from 
other  caterpillars  only  by  a  more  delicate  gen- 
eral impressionability,  unless  this  mosaic  be 
endowed  with  aptitudes  unknown  elsewhere. 
If  the  nocturnal  spinner  is  still  none  too 
generously  equipped,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  the  season  which  he  passes  in  this  ccn- 
iog 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

dition  is  nearly  always  clement.  The  really 
formidable  nights  hardly  set  in  before  Janu- 
ary. But  then,  as  a  safeguard  in  his  pere- 
grinations, the  Pine  Processionary  cleaves  his 
back  with  a  series  of  mouths  which  yawn  open 
to  sample  the  air  from  time  to  time  and  to 
give  a  warning  of  the  sudden  storm. 

Until  further  evidence  is  forthcoming, 
therefore,  the  dorsal  slits  are,  to  my  mind, 
meteorological  instruments,  barometers  in- 
fluenced by  the  main  fluctuations  of  the  atmo- 
sphere. To  go  beyond  suspicions,  though 
these  are  well  based,  is  for  me  impossible.  I 
lack  the  equipment  necessary  to  delve  more 
deeply  into  the  subject.  But  I  have  given  a 
hint.  It  is  for  those,  who  are  better  favoured 
in  the  matter  of  resources  to  find  the  final  solu- 
tion of  this  interesting  problem. 


t;o 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PINE  PROCESSIONARY:  THE  MOTH 

WHEN  March  comes,  the  caterpillars 
reared  in  domesticity  never  cease  pro- 
cessioning. Many  leave  the  greenhouse, 
which  remains  open;  they  go  in  search  of  a 
suitable  spot  for  the  approaching  metamor- 
phosis. .  This  is  the  final  exodus,  the  definite 
abandonment  of  the  nest  and  the  pine-tree. 
The  pilgrims  are  much  faded,  whitish,  with 
a  few  russet  hairs  on  their  backs. 

On  the  2Oth  of  March  I  spend  a  whole 
morning  watching  the  evolutions  of  a  file 
some  three  yards  in  length,  containing  about 
a  hundred  emigrants.  The  procession  toils 
grimly  along,  undulating  over  the  dusty 
ground,  where  it  leaves  a  furrow.  Then  it 
breaks  into  a  small  number  of  groups,  which 
crowd  together  and  remain  quiescent  save  for 
sudden  oscillations  of  the  hind-quarters. 
After  a  halt  of  varying  duration,  these  groups 
resume  their  march,  henceforward  forming 
independent  processions. 

They  take  no  settled  direction.  This  one 
in 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

goes  forward,  that  one  goes  back;  one  turns 
to  the  left  and  another  to  the  right.  There 
is  no  rule  about  their  marching,  no  positive 
goal.  One  procession,  after  describing  a  loop, 
retraces  its  steps.  Yet  there  is  a  general  tend- 
ency towards  that  wall  of  the  greenhouse 
which  faces  the  south  and  reflects  the  sun's 
rays  with  added  fervour.  The  sole  guide,  il 
would  seem,  is  the  amount  of  sun  which  a 
place  obtains;  the  directions  whence  the  great- 
est heat  comes  are  preferred. 

After  a  couple  of  hours  of  marching  and 
countermarching,  the  fragmentary  proces- 
sions, comprising  each  a  score  of  caterpillars, 
reach  the  foot  of  the  wall.  Here  the  soil 
is  powdery,  very  dry,  easy  to  burrow  in,  al- 
though made  somewhat  firmer  by  tufts  of 
grass.  The  caterpillar  at  the  head  of  the  row 
explores  with  his  mandibles,  digs  a  little,  in- 
vestigates the  nature  of  the  ground.  The 
others,  trusting  their  leader,  follow  him  with 
docility,  making  no  attempts  of  their  own. 
Whatever  the  foremost  decides  will  be 
adopted  by  all.  Here,  in  the  choice  of  a  mat- 
ter so  important  as  the  spot  whereat  the  trans- 
formation shall  take  place,  there  is  no  in- 
dividual initiative.  There  is  only  one  will, 

112 


The  Processionary :  the  Moth 

the  leader's.  There  is  only  one  head,  so  to 
speak;  the  procession  may  be  compared  with 
the  chain  of  segments  of  an  enormous  worm. 

Finally  some  spot  is  recognized  as  propi- 
tious. The  leading  caterpillar  halts,  pushes 
with  his  head,  digs  with  his  mandibles.  The 
others,  still  in  a  continuous  line,  arrive  one  by 
one  and  likewise  come  to  a  halt.  Then  the 
file  breaks  up  into  a  swarming  heap,  in  which 
each  of  the  caterpillars  resumes  his  liberty. 
All  their  backs  are  joggling  pell-mell ;  all  their 
heads  are  plunged  into  the  dust;  all  their  feet 
are  raking,  all  their  mandibles  excavating  the 
soil  The  worm  has  chopped  itself  into  a 
gang  of  independent  workers. 

An  excavation  is  formed  in  which,  little  by 
little,  the  caterpillars  bury  themselves.  For 
some  time  to  come,  the  undermined  soil  cracks 
and  rises  and  covers  itself  with  little  mole- 
hills; then  all  is  still.  The  caterpillars  have' 
descended  to  a  depth  of  three  inches.  This 
is  as  far  as  the  roughness  of  the  soil  permits 
them  to  go.  In  looser  soil,  the  excavation 
would  attain  a  much  greater  depth.  The 
greenhouse  shelf,  supplied  with  fine  sand,  has 
provided  me  with  cocoons  placed  at  a  depth 
of  from  eight  to  twelve  inches.  I  would  not 
113 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

assert  that  the  interment  might  not  be  made 
still  lower  down.  For  the  most  part,  the 
burial  is  effected  in  common,  by  more  or  less 
numerous  clusters  and  at  depths  which  vary 
greatly,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  soil. 

A  fortnight  later,  let  us  dig  at  the  point 
where  the  descent  underground  was  made. 
Here  we  shall  find  the  cocoons  assembled  in 
bunches,  cocoons  of  sorry  appearance,  soiled 
as  they  are  with  earthy  particles  held  by  silken 
threads.  When  stripped  of  their  rough  ex- 
terior, they  are  not  without  a  certain  elegance. 
They  are  narrow  ellipsoids,  pointed  at  both 
ends,  measuring  twenty-five  millimetres  in 
length  and  nine  millimetres1  in  thickness.  The 
silk  of  which  they  are  composed  is  very  fine 
and  of  a  dull  white.  The  fragility  of  the 
walls  is  remarkable  when  we  have  seen  the 
enormous  quantity  of  silk  expended  on  the 
construction  of  the  nest. 

A  prodigious  spinner  where  his  winter  habi- 
tation is  concerned,  the  caterpillar  finds  his 
glands  exhausted  and  is  reduced  to  the  strictly 
necessary  amount  when  the  time  conies  for 
making  the  cocoon.  Too  poor  in  silk,  he 
strengthens  his  flimsy  cell  with  a  facing  of 

^•975  by  .351  inch. — Translator's  Note. 
114 


The  Processionary :  the  Moth 

earth.  With  him  it  is  not  the  industry  of 
the  Bembex,1  who  inserts  grains  of  sand  in 
her  silky  web  and  makes  a  solid  casket  of 
the  whole;  it  is  a  summary  sort  of  art,  devoid 
of  delicacy,  which  just  casually  sticks  to- 
gether the  surrounding  earthy  refuse. 

Moreover,  if  circumstances  demand  it,  the 
Pine  Caterpillar  can  do  without  earth.  In 
the  very  midst  of  the  nest  I  have  sometimes 
— very  rarely,  it  is  true — discovered  cocoons 
which  were  perfectly  clean.  Not  a  scrap  of 
alien  matter  defiled  their  fine  white  silk.  I 
have  obtained  similar  specimens  by  placing 
caterpillars  under  a  bell-glass  in  a  pan  pro- 
vided only  with  a  few  pine-twigs.  Better 
still:  an  entire  procession,  a  good-sized  one 
too,  gathered  at  the  opportune  moment  and 
enclosed  in  a  large  box  containing  no  sand  nor 
any  material  whatever,  spun  its  cocoons  with 
no  other  support  than  the  bare  walls.  These 
exceptions,  provoked  by  circumstances  in 
which  the  caterpillar  is  not  free  to  act  ac- 
cording to  his  wont,  does  not  in  any  way  in- 
validate the  rule.  To  prepare  for  the  trans- 
formation, the  Processionary  buries  himself, 

iCf.  The  Hunting  Wasps:  chaps,  xiv  to  xvii.-TYanj- 
lator's  Note. 

US 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

to  the  depth  of  nine  inches  and  more,  if  the 
soil  permit. 

Here  a  curious  problem  forces  itself  upon 
the  observer's  mind.  How  does  the  Moth 
contrive  to  ascend  from  the  catacombs 
into  which  the  caterpillar  has  descended? 
Not  in  the  finery  of  her  perfect  state — the 
big  wings  with  their  delicate  scales,  the  sweep- 
ing antenna-plumes — dare  she  brave  the  as- 
perities of  the  soil,  or  she  would  issue  thence 
all  tattered,  rumpled  and  unrecognizable. 
And  this  is  not  the  case:  far  from  it.  More- 
over, what  means  can  she  employ,  she  so 
feeble,  to  break  the  crust  of  earth  into  which 
the  original  dust  will  have  turned  after  the 
slightest  of  showers? 

The  Moth  appears  at  the  end  of  July  or 
in  August.  The  burial  took  place  in  March. 
Rain  must  have  fallen  during  this  lapse  of 
time,  rain  which  beats  down  the  soil,  cements 
it  and  leaves  it  to  harden  once  evaporation 
has  set  in.  Never  could  a  Moth,  unless  at- 
tired and  equipped  with  tools  for  the  pur- 
pose, break  her  way  through  such  an  obstacle. 
She  would  perforce  require  a  boring-tool  and 
a  costume  of  extreme  simplicity.  Guided  by 
these  considerations,  I  institute  a  few  experi- 
116 


The  Processionary :  the  Moth 

ments   which   will   give   me   the   key   to   the 
riddle. 

In  April  I  make  a  copious  collection  of 
cocoons.  Of  these  I  place  ten  or  twelve  at 
the  bottom  of  test-tubes  of  different  diameters 
and,  last  of  all,  I  fill  the  apparatus  with  sandy 
soil,  sifted  and  very  slightly  moistened.  The 
contents  are  pressed  down,  but  in  moderation, 
for  fear  of  injuring  the  cocoons  below.  When 
the  month  of  August  comes,  the  column  of 
earth,  damp  at  the  outset,  has  set  so  firmly, 
thanks  to  evaporation,  that,  when  I  reverse 
the  test-tube,  nothing  trickles  out.  On  the 
other  hand,  some  cocoons  have  been  kept 
naked  under  a  metallic  cover.  These  will 
teach  me  what  the  buried  cocoons  would  not 
be  able  to  show.  They  furnish  me,  in  fact, 
with  records  of  the  greatest  interest.  On  issu- 
ing from  the  cocoon,  the  Pine  Bombyx  has 
her  finery  bundled  up  and  presents  the  appear- 
ance of  a  cylinder  with  rounded  ends.  The 
wings,  the  principal  obstacle  to  underground 
labour,  are  pressed  against  the  breast  like  nar- 
row scarves;  the  antennas,  another  serious  em- 
barrassment, have  not  yet  unfolded  their 
plumes  and  are  turned  back  along  the  Moth's 
sides.  The  hair,  which  later  forms  a  dense 

157 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

fleece,  is  laid  flat,  pointing  backwards.  The 
legs  alone  are  free,  fairly  active  and  endowed 
with  a  certain  vigour.  Thanks  to  this  arrange- 
ment, which  does  away  with  all  awkward  pro- 
jections, the  ascent  through  the  soil  is  made 
possible. 

True,  every  Moth,  at  the  moment  of  quit- 
ting her  shell,  is  this  sort  of  swathed  mummy; 
but  the  Pine  Bombyx  has  in  addition  an  ex- 
ceptional aptitude  rendered  necessary  by  the 
fact  that  she  hatches  under  the  ground. 
While  the  others,  once  out  of  the  cocoon, 
hasten  to  spread  their  wings  and  are  power- 
less to  defer  their  development,  she,  by  virtue 
of  an  indispensable  privilege,  remains  in  her 
compact  and  wrapped-up  condition  as  long 
as  circumstances  demand  it.  Under  my  bell- 
glasses  I  see  some  who,  though  born  upon  the 
surface,  for  twenty-four  hours  drag  them- 
selves over  the  sand  or  cling  to  the  pine- 
branches,  before  untying  their  sashes  and  un- 
furling them  as  wings. 

This  delay  is  evidently  essential.  To  as- 
cend from  beneath  the  earth  and  reach  the 
open  air,  the  Moth  has  to  bore  a  long  tun- 
nel, which  requires  time.  She  will  take  good 
care  not  to  spread  her  hnery  before  emer- 
118 


The  Processionary :  the  Moth 

ging, 'for  it  would  hamper  her  and  would  it- 
self be  rumpled  and  badly  creased.  There- 
fore the  cylindrical  mummy  persists  until  the 
deliverance  is  effected;  and,  if  liberty  happen 
to  be  acquired  before  the  appointed  moment, 
the  final  evolution  does  not  take  place  until 
after  a  lapse  of  time  in  conformity  with 
usage. 

We  are  acquainted  with  the  equipment 
for  emergence,  the  tight-fitting  jerkin  in- 
dispensable in  a  narrow  gallery.  Now, 
where  is  the  boring-tool  ?  The  legs,  though 
free,  would  here  be  insufficient:  they 
would  scrape  the  earth  laterally,  enlar- 
ging the  diameter  of  the  shaft,  but  could 
not  prolong  the  exit  vertically,  above  the 
insect's  head.  This  tool  must  be  in 
front. 

Pass  the  tip  of  your  finger  over  the  Moth's 
head.  You  will  feel  a  few  very  rough 
wrinkles.  The  magnifying-glass  shows  us 
more.  We  find,  between  the  eyes  and  higher 
up,  four  or  five  transversal  scales,  so  set  as 
to  overlap  one  another;  they  are  hard  and 
black  and  are  trimmed  crescent-wise  at  the 
ends.  The  longest  and  strongest  is  the  upper- 
most, which  is  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead. 
119 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

There  you  have  the  centre-bit  of  your  boring- 
tool. 

To  make  our  tunnels  in  granitic  rocks  we 
tip  our  drills  with  diamond  points.  For  a 
similar  task  the  Bombyx,  a  living  drill,  wears 
implanted  on  her  forehead  a  row  of  crescents, 
hard  and  durable  as  steel,  a  regular  twist- 
bit.  Without  suspecting  its  use,  Reaumur 
was  perfectly  aware  of  this  marvellous  im- 
plement, which  he  called  scaly  stairs : 

"What  does  it  profit  this  Moth,"  he  asks, 
"that  she  should  thus  have  the  front  of  her 
head  formed  like  scaly  stairs?  That  is  just 
what  I  do  not  know." 

My  test-tubes,  learned  master,  will  tell  us. 
By  good  fortune,  of  the  numerous  Moths  as- 
cending from  the  bottom  of  my  apparatus 
through  a  column  of  sand  solidified  by  the 
evaporation  of  the  original  moisture,  some  are 
making  their  way  upwards  against  the  side 
of  the  tube,  enabling  me  to  follow  their  ma- 
noeuvres. I- see  them  raising  their  cylindrical 
bodies,  butting  with  their  heads,  jerking  now 
in  one  direction,  now  in  another  The  nature 
of  their  task  is  obvious.  The  centre-bits,  with 
an  alternating  movement,  are  boring  into  the 
agglutinated  sand.  The  powdery  wreckage 


The  Processionary :  the  Moth 

trickles  down  from  overhead  and  is  at  once 
thrust  backward  by  the  legs.  A  little  space 
forms  at  the  top  of  the  vault ;  and  the  Moth 
moves  so  much  nearer  to  the  surface.  By 
the  following  day,  the  whole  column,  ten 
inches  in  height,  will  be  perforated  with  a 
straight,  perpendicular  shaft. 

Shall  we  now  form  an  idea  of  the  total 
work  performed?  Let  us  turn  the  test-tube 
upside  down.  The  contents,  as  I  have  said, 
will  not  fall  out,  for  they  have  set  into  a 
block;  but  from  the  tunnels  bored  by  the 
Moth  trickles  all  the  sand  crumbled  by  the 
crescents  of  the  drill.  The  result  is  a  cylin- 
drical gallery,  of  the  width  of  a  lead-pencil, 
very  cleanly  cut  and  reaching  to  the  bottom 
of  the  solid  mass. 

Are  you  satisfied,  my  master?  Do  you 
now  perceive  the  great  utility  of  the  scaly 
stairs  ?  Would  you  not  say  that  we  have  here 
a  magnificent  example  of  an  instrument  super- 
latively fitted  for  a  definite  task?  I  share  this 
opinion,  for  I  think,  with  you,  that  a 
sovereign  Reason  has  in  all  things  coordi- 
nated the  means  and  the  end. 

But  let  me  tell  you:  we  are  called  old- 
fashioned,  you  and  I ;  with  our  conception  of 

121 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

a  world  ruled  by  an  Intelligence,  we  are  quite 
out  of  the  swim.  Order,  balance,  harmony: 
that  is  all  silly  nonsense.  The  universe  is  a 
fortuitous  arrangement  in  the  chaos  of  the 
possible.  What  is  white  might  as  easily  be 
black,  what  is  round  might  be  angular,  what 
is  regular  might  be  shapeless  and  harmony 
might  just  as  well  be  discord.  Chance  has  de- 
cided all  things. 

Yes,  we  are  a  pair  of  prejudiced  old  fogeys 
when  we  linger  with  a  certain  fondness  over 
the  marvels  of  perfection.  Who  troubles 
about  these  futilities  nowadays?  So-called 
serious  science,  the  science  which  spells 
honour,  profit  and  renown,  consists  in  slicing 
your  animal  with  very  costly  instruments  into 
tiny  circular  sections.  My  housekeeper  does 
as  much  with  a  bunch  of  carrots,  with  no 
higher  pretention  than  to  concoct  a  modest 
dish,  which  is  not  an  invariable  success.  In 
the  problem  of  life  are  we  more  successful 
when  we  have  split  a  fibre  into  four  and  cut 
a  cell  into  shavings?  It  hardly  seems  so. 
Th'e  riddle  is  as  dark  as  ever.  Ah,  how  much 
better  is  your  method,  my  dear  master;  above 
all,  how  much  loftier  your  philosophy,  ho'.v 
much  more  wholesome  and  invigorating! 
122 


The  Procesbionary  :  the  Moth 

Here  at  last  is  the  Moth  at  the  surface. 
With  the  deliberate  slowness  demanded  by  so 
delicate  an  operation,  she  spreads  her  bunched 
wings,  extends  her  antennas  and  puffs  out  her 
fleece.  Her  costume  is  a  modest  one:  upper 
wings  grey,  striped  with  a  few  crinkly  brown 
streaks;  under-wings  white;  thorax  covered 
with  thick  grey  fur;  abdomen  clad  in  bright- 
russet  velvet.  The  last  segment  has  a  pale- 
gold  sheen.  At  first  sight  it  appears  bare. 
It  is  not,  however;  but,  in  place  of  hairs  like 
those  of  the  other  segments,  it  has,  on  its  dor- 
sal surface,  scales  so  well  assembled  and  so 
close  together  that  the  whole  seems  to  form  a 
continuous  block,  like  a  nugget. 

Let  us  touch  this  trinket  with  the  point  of 
a  needle.  However  gently  we  rub,  a  multi- 
tude of  scales  come  off  and  flutter  at  the  least 
breath,  shining  like  mica  spangles.  Their 
concave  form,  their  shape,  an  elongated  oval, 
their  colouring,  white  in  the  lower  half  but 
reddish  gold  in  the  upper,  give  them,  if  we 
allow  for  the  difference  in  size,  a  certain  re- 
semblance to  the  scales  surrounding  the  heads 
of  some  of  the  centaury  tribe.  Such  is  the 
golden  fleece  of  which  the  mother  will  de- 
spoil herself  in  order  to  cover  the  cylinder  of 
123 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

her  eggs.  The  nugget  of  her  hind-quarters, 
exfoliated  spangle  by  spangle,  will  form  a 
roof  for  the  germs  arranged  like  the  grain  in 
a  corn-cob. 

I  was  anxious  to  watch  the  actual  placing 
of  these  pretty  tiles,  which  are  fixed  at  the 
pale  end  with  a  speck  of  cement,  leaving  the 
coloured  end  free.  Circumstances  did  not 
favour  me.  Inactive  all  day,  motionless  on 
some  needle  of  the  lower  branches,  the  Moth, 
whose  life  is  very  short,  moves  only  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night.  Both  her  mating 
and  egg-laying  are  nocturnal.  On  the 
morrow,  all  is  finished:  the  Bombyx  has 
lived.  Under  these  conditions,  it  was 
impossible,  by  the  doubtful  beams  of  a 
lantern,  to  follow  satisfactorily  the  labour 
of  the  mother  on  the  pine-trees  in  the 
garden. 

I  was  no  more  fortunate  with  the  captives 
in  my  bell-glasses.  A  few  did  lay  their  eggs, 
but  always  at  a  very  advanced  hour  of  the 
night,  an  hour  which  found  my  vigilance  at 
fault.  The  light  of  a  candle  and  eyes  heavy 
with  sleep  were  of  little  avail  when  it  came 
to  analysing  the  subtle  operations  of  the 
mother  as  she  puts  her  scales  in  place.  We 
124 


The  Procession ary :  the  Moth 

will  say  nothing  of  the  little  that  was  imper- 
fectly seen. 

Let  us  close  with  a  few  words  of  sylvi- 
cultural  practice.  The  Pine  Processionary  is 
a  voracious  caterpillar  who,  while  respecting 
the  terminal  bud,  protected  by  its  scales  and 
its  resinous  varnish,  completely  denudes  the 
bough  and  imperils  the  tree  by  leaving  it  bald. 
The  green  pine-needles,  that  mane  in  which 
the  vegetable  vigour  of  the  tree  resides,  are 
shorn  to  the  roots.  How  are  we  to  remedy 
this? 

When  consulted  on  the  subject,  the  forest- 
ranger  of  my  parish  told  me  that  the  custom 
is  to  go  from  tree  to  tree  with  pruning-shears 
fitted  on  a  long  pole  and  to  cut  down  the  nests, 
afterwards  burning  them.  The  method  is  a 
troublesome  one,  for  the  silken  purses  are 
often  at  considerable  heights.  Moreover,  it 
i<  not  without  danger.  Attacked  by  the  hairy 
dust,  the  destroyers  soon  experience  intolera- 
ble discomfort,  a  torture  of  irritation  which 
makes  them  refuse  to  continue  the  work.  To 
my  thinking  it  would  be  better  to  operate 
before  the  appearance  of  the  nests. 

The  Pine  Bombyx  is  a  very  bad  flyer.  In- 
capable of  soaring,  almost  like  the  Silk-moth, 
125 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

she  flutters  about  and  blunders  to  earth  again; 
and  her  best  efforts  barely  succeed  in  bringing 
her  to  the  lower  branches,  which  almost  drag 
along  the  ground.  Here  are  deposited  the 
cylinders  of  eggs,  at  a  height  of  six  feet  at 
most.  It  is  the  young  caterpillars  who,  from 
one  provisional  encampment  to  another, 
gradually  ascend,  attaining,  stage  by  stage, 
the  summits  upon  which  they  weave  their  final 
dwellings.  Once  we  grasp  this  peculiarity,  the 
rest  is  plain  sailing. 

In  August  we  inspect  the  lower  foliage  of 
the  tree:  an  easy  examination,  for  it  is  car- 
ried on  no  higher  than  our  heads.  Towards 
the  far  end  of  the  twigs  it  is  easy  to  espy 
the  Bombyx'  eggs,  packed  into  cylinders  that 
resemble  scaly  catkins.  Their  size  and  their 
whitish  colour  make  them  show  up  amid  the 
sombre  green.  Gathered  with  the  double 
pine-needle  that  bears  them,  these  cylinders 
are  crushed  under  foot,  a  summary  fashion 
of  stamping  out  an  evil  before  it  spreads. 

This  I  have  done  in  the  case  of  the  few 
pine-trees  in  my  enclosure.  And  the  same 
might  be  done  in  the  wider  forest  expanses 
and  more  especially  in  parks  and  gardens, 
where  symmetrical  foliation  is  one  of  the 


The  Processionary :  the  Moth 

great  beauties  of  the  tree.  I  will  add  that 
it  is  wise  to  prune  every  bough  that  droops 
to  earth  and  to  keep  the  foot  of  the  conifer 
bare  to  a  height  of  six  feet  or  so.  In  the  ab- 
sence of  these  lower  stairs,  the  only  ones  that 
the  Bombyx  with  her  clumsy  flight  can  reach, 
she  will  not  be  able  to  populate  the  tree. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PINE  PROCESSIONARY  :  THE  STINGING 
POWER 

THE  Pine  Processionary  has  three  cos- 
tumes: that  of  infancy,  a  scanty,  ragged 
fleece,  a  mixture  of  black  and  white;  that  of 
middle  age,  the  richest  of  the  three,  when  the 
segments  deck  themselves  on  their  dorsal  sur- 
face with  golden  tufts  and  a  mosaic  of  bare 
patches,  scarlet  in  colour;  and  that  of  ma- 
turity, when  the  rings  are  cleft  by  slits  which 
one  by  one  open  and  close  their  thick  lips, 
champing  and  grinding  their  bristling  russet 
beards  and  chewing  them  into  little  pellets, 
which  are  thrown  out  on  the  creature's  sides 
when  the  bottom  of  the  pocket  swells  up  like 
a  tumour. 

When  wearing  this  last  costume,  the  cater- 
pillar is  very  disagreeable  to  handle,  or  even 
to  observe  at  close  quarters.  I  happened, 
quite  unexpectedly,  to  learn  this,  more  tho- 
roughly than  I  wished. 

After  unsuspectingly  passing  a  whole  mo'rn- 
128 


The  Stinging  Power 

ing  with  my  insects,  stooping  over  them,  mag- 
nifying-glass  in  hand,  to  examine  the  work- 
ing of  their  slits.  I  found  TIV  forehead  and 
eyelids  suffering  with  redness  for  twenty-four 
hours  and  afflicted  with  an  itching  even  more 
painful  and  persistent  than  that  produced  by 
the  sting  of  a  nettle.  On  seeing  me  come 
down  to  dinner  in  this  sad  plight,  with  my 
eyes  reddened  and  swollen  and  my  face 
unrecognizable,  the  family  anxiously  en- 
quired what  had  happened  to  me  and  were 
not  reassured  until  I  told  them  of  my  mis- 
hap. 

I  unhesitatingly  attribute  my  painful  ex- 
perience to  the  red  hairs  ground  to  powder 
and  collected  into  flakes,  My  breath  sought 
them  out  in  the  open  pockets  and  carried  them 
to  my  face,  which  was  very  near.  The  un- 
thinking intervention  of  my  hands,  which  now 
and  again  sought  to  ease  the  discomfort, 
merely  aggravated  the  ill  by  spreading  the 
irritating  dust. 

No,  the  search  for  truth  on  the  back  of 
the  Proc»ssionary  is  not  all  sunshine.  It  was 
only  after  a  night's  rest  that  I  found  myself 
pretty  well  recovered,  the  incident  having  no 
further  ill  effects.  Let  us  continue,  however. 
129 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

It  is  well  to  substitute  premeditated  experi- 
ments for  chance  facts. 

The  little  pockets  of  which  the  dorsal  slits 
form  the  entrance  are  encumbered,  as  I  have 
said,  with  hairy  refuse,  either  scattered  or 
gathered  into  flakes.  With  the  point  of  ?. 
paint-brush  I  collect,  when  they  gape  open,  a 
little  of  their  contents  and  rub  it  on  my  wrist 
or  on  the  inside  of  my  fore-arm. 

I  have  not  long  to  wait  for  the  result. 
Soon  the  skin  turns  red  and  is  covered  with 
pale  lenticular  swellings,  similar  to  those  pro- 
duced by  a  nettle-sting.  Without  being  very 
sharp,  the  pain  was  extremely  unpleasant.  By 
the  following  day,  itching,  redness  and  lenticu- 
lar swellings  had  all  disappeared.  This  is  the 
usual  sequence  of  events;  but  let  me 
not  omit  to  say  that  the  experiment  does 
not  always  succeed.  The  efficacy  of  the 
fluffy  dust  appears  subject  to  great  varia- 
tions. 

There  have  been  occasions  when  I  have 
rubbed  myself  with  the  whole  caterpillar,  or 
with  his  cast  skin,  or  with  the  brdken  hairs 
gathered  on  a  paint-brush,  without  producing 
any  unpleasant  results.  The  irritant  dust 
seems  to  vary  in  quality  according  to  certain 
130 


The  Stinging  Power 

circumstances  which  I  have  not  been  able  to 
discover. 

From  my  various  tests  it  is  evident  that  the 
discomfort  is  caused  by  the  delicate  hairs 
which  the  lips  of  the  dorsal  mouths,  gaping 
and  closing  again,  never  cease  grinding,  to 
the  detriment  of  their  beards  and  moustaches. 
The  edges  of  these  slits,  as  their  bristles  rub 
off,  furnish  the  stinging  dust. 

Having  established  this  fact,  let  us  proceed 
to  more  serious  experiments.  In  the  middle 
of  March,  when  the  Processionaries  for  the 
most  part  h?.ve  migrated  underground,  I  de- 
cide to  open  a  few  nests,  as  I  wish  to  collect 
their  last  inhabitants  for  the  purpose,  of  my 
investigations.  Without  taking  any  precau- 
tions, my  fingers  tug  at  the  silken  dwelling, 
which  is  made  of  solid  stuff;  they  tear  it  into 
shreds,  search  it  through  and  through,  turn  it 
inside  out  and  back  again. 

Once  more  and  this  time  in  a  more  serious 
fashion,  I  am  the  victim  of  my  unthinking 
enthusiasm.  Hardly  is  the  operation  com- 
pleted, when  the  tips  of  my  fingers  begin  to 
hurt  in  good  earnest,  especially  in  the  more 
delicate  part  protected  by  the  edge  of  the  nail. 
The  feeling  is  like  the  sharp  pain  of  a  sore 
131 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

that  is  beginning  to  fester.  All  the  rest  of 
the  day  and  all  through  the  night,  the  pain 
persists,  troublesome  enough  to  rob  me  of 
my  sleep.  '  It  does  not  quiet  down  until  the 
following  day,  after  twenty-four  hours  of 
petty  torment. 

How  did  this  new  misadventure  befall  me? 
I  had  not  handled  the  caterpillars:  indeed, 
there  were  very  few  of  them  in  the  nest  at 
the  time.  I  had  come  upon  no  shed  skins, 
for  the  moults  do  not  take  place  inside  the 
silken  purse.  When  the  moment  has  come  to 
doff  the  second  costume,  that  of  the  red  mo- 
saic, the  caterpillars  cluster  outside,  on  the 
dome  of  their  dwelling,  and  there  leave  in  a 
single  heap  their  old  clothes  entangled  with 
bits  of  silk.  What  is  left  to  explain  the  un- 
pleasant consequences  to  which  the  handling 
of  the  nest  exposes  us? 

The  broken  red  bristles  are  left,  the  fallen 
hairs  forming  a  dust  that  is  invisible  with- 
out a  very  careful  examination.  For  a 
long  time  the  Processionaries  crawl  and 
swarm  about  the  nest;  they  pass  to  and  fro, 
penetrating  the  thickness  of  the  wall  when 
they  go  to  the  pastures  and  when  they  return 
to  their  dormitory.  Whether  motionless  or 

132 


The  Stinging  Power 

on  the  move,  they  are  constantly  opening  and 
closing  their  apparatus  of  information,  the 
dorsal  mouths.  At  the  moment  of  closing,  the 
lips  of  these  slits,  rolling  on  each  other  like 
the  cylinders  of  a  flattening-mill,  catch  hold 
of  the  fluff  near  them,  tear  it  out  and  break 
it  into  fragments  which  the  bottom  of  the 
pocket,  presently  reascending,  shoots  outside. 

Thus  myriads  of  irritant  particles  are  dis- 
seminated and  subtly  introduced  into  every 
part  of  the  nest.  The  shirt  of  Nessus  burnt 
the  veins  of  whoso  wore  it;  the  silk  of  the 
Processionary,  another  poisoned  fabric,  sets 
on  fire  the  fingers  that  handle  it. 

The  loathsome  hairs  long  retain  their  viru- 
lence. I  was  once  sorting  out  some  handfuls 
of  cocoons,  many  of  which  were  diseased.  As 
the  hardness  of  the  contents  was  usually  an 
indication  that  something  was  wrong,  I  tore 
open  the  doubtful  cocoons  with  my  fingers,  in 
order  to  save  the  non-contaminated  chrysalids. 
My  sorting  was  rewarded  with  the  same  kind 
of  pain,  especially  under  the  edges  of  the 
nails,  as  I  had  already  suffered  when  tearing 
the  nests. 

The  cause  of  the  irritation  on  this  occasion 
was  sometimes  the  dry  skin  discarded  by  the 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Processionary  on  becoming  a  chrysalis  and 
sometimes  the  shrivelled  caterpillar  turned 
into  a  sort  of  chalky  cylinder  through  the 
invasion  of  the  malignant  fungus.  Six 
months  later,  these  wretched  cocoons  were  still 
capable  of  producing  redness  and  irritation. 

Examined  under  the  microscope,  the  russet 
hairs,  the  cause  of  the  itching,  are  stiff  rods, 
very  sharp  at  either  end  and  armed  with  barbs 
along  the  upper  half.  Their  structure  has 
absolutely  nothing  in  common  with  nettle- 
hairs,  those  tapering  phials  whose  hard  point 
snaps  off,  pouring  an  irritant  fluid  into  the 
tiny  wound. 

The  plant  from  whose  Latin  name,  Urtica, 
we  derive  the  word  urtication  borrowed  the 
design  of  its  weapon  from  the  fangs  of  the 
venomous  serpents;  it  obtains  its  effect,  not 
by  the  wound,  but  by  the  poison  introduced 
into  the  wound.  The  Processionary  employs 
a  different  method.  The  hairs,  which  have 
naught  resembling  the  ampullary  reservoir  of 
the  nettle-hairs,  must  be  poisoned  on  the  sur- 
face, like  the  assegais  of  the  Kafirs  and 
Zulus. 

Do  they  really  penetrate  the  epidermis? 
Are  they  like  the  savage's  javelin,  which  can- 

1.34 


The  Stinging  Power 

not  be  extracted  once  it  has  gone  in  ?  With 
their  barbs,  do  they  enter  all  the  more  deeply 
because  of  the  quivering  of  the  outraged  flesh  ? 
There  is  no  ground  for  believing  anything  of 
the  kind.  In  vain  do  I  scrutinize  the  injured 
spot  through  the  magnify  ing-glass;  I  can  see 
no  sign  of  the  implanted  dart.  Neither  could 
Reaumur,  when  an  encounter  with  the  Oak 
Processionary  set  him  scratching  himself.  He 
had  his  suspicions,  but  could  state  nothing 
definitely. 

No;  despite  their  sharp  points  and  their 
barbs,  which  make  them,  under  the  micro- 
scope, such  formidable  spears,  the  Proces- 
sionary's  russet  hairs  are  not  darts  designed 
to  imbed  themselves  in  the  skin  and  to  pro- 
voke irritation  by  pricking. 

Many  caterpillars,  all  most  inoffensive, 
have  a  coat  of  bristles  which,  under  the  micro- 
scope, resolve  themselves  into  barbed  javelins, 
quite  harmless  in  spite  of  their  threatening 
aspect.  Let  me  mention  a  couple  of  these 
peaceable  halberdiers. 

Early  in  spring,  we  see,  crossing  the  paths, 
a  briskly-moving  caterpillar  who  inspires  repu- 
nance  by  his  ferocious  hairiness,  which  ripples 
like  ripe  corn.  The  ancient  naturalists,  with 

135 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

their  artless  and  picturesque  nomenclature, 
called  him  the  Hedgehog.  The  term  isworthy 
of  the  creature,  which,  in  the  moment  of 
danger,  rolls  itself  up  like  a  Hedgehog,  pre- 
senting its  spiny  armour  on  all  sides  to  the 
enemy.  On  its  back  is  a  dense  mixture  of 
black  hairs  and  hairs  of  ashen-gray;  while  on 
the  sides  and  fore-part  of  the  body  is  a  stiff 
mane  of  bright  russet.  Black,  grey  or  russet, 
all  this  fierce-looking  coat  is  heavily  barbed. 

One  hesitates  to  touch  this  horror  with  the 
finger-tips.  Still,  encouraged  by  my  example, 
seven-year-old  Paul,-  with  his  tender  child's 
skin,  gathers  handfuls  of  the  repulsive  insect 
with  no  more  apprehension  than  if  he  were 
picking  a  bunch  of  violets.  He  fills  his 
boxes  with  it;  he  rears  it  on  elm-leaves  and 
handles  it  daily,  for  he  knows  that  from  this 
frightful  creature  he  will  one  day  obtain  a 
superb  Moth  (Chelonia  caja,  LINN.),  clad 
in  scarlet  velvet,  with  the  lower  wings  red  and 
the  upper  white,  sprinkled  with  brown  spots. 

What  resulted  from  the  child's  familiarity 
with  the  shaggy  creature?  Not  even  a  trace 
of  itching  on  his  delicate  skin.  I  do  not  speak 
of  mine,  which  is  tanned  by  the  years. 

In  the  osier-beds  of  our  local  stream,  the 
136 


The  Stinging  Power 

rushing  Aygues,  a  thorny  shrub  abounds 
which,  at  the  advent  of  autumn,  is  covered 
with  an  infinity  of  very  sour  red  berries. 
Its  crabbed  boughs,  which  bear  but  little  ver- 
dure, are  hidden  under  their  clusters  of  ver- 
milion balls.  It  is  the  sallow  thorn  or  sea 
buckthorn  (Hippophae  rhamnoides). 

In  April,  a  very  hairy  but  rather  pretty 
caterpillar  lives  at  the  expense  of  this  shrub's 
budding  leaves.  He  has  on  his  back  five  dense 
tufts  of  hair,  set  side  by  side  and  arranged 
like  the  bristles  of  a  brush,  tufts  deep-black 
in  the  centre  and  white  at  the  edges.  He 
waves  two  divergent  plumes  in  front  of  him 
and  sports  a  third  on  his  crupper,  like  a 
feathery  tail.  These  three  are  black  hair- 
pencils  of  extreme  delicacy. 

His  greyish  Moth,  flattened  motionless  on 
the  bark,  stretches  his  long  fore-legs,  one 
against  the  other,  in  front  of  him.  You  would 
take  them,  at  a  first  glance,  for  antennae  of 
exaggerated  proportions.  This  pose  of  the 
extended  limbs  has  won  the  insect  the  scientific 
label  of  Orgyia,  arm's  length;  and  also  the 
vulgar  and  more  expressive  denomination  of 
Patte  etendue,  or  outstretched  paw. 

Little  Paul  has  not  failed,  with  my  aid,  to 
i37 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

rear  the  pretty  bearer  of  the  tufts  and  brushes. 
How  many  times,  with  his  sensitive  finger, 
has  he  not  .stroked  the  creature's  furry  cos- 
tume? He  found  it  softer  than  velvet.  And 
yet,  enlarged  under  the  microscope,  the  cater- 
pillar's hairs  are  horrible  barbed  spears,  no 
less  menacing  than  those  of  the  Processionary. 
The  resemblance  goes  no  farther:  handled 
without  precautions,  the  tufted  caterpillar 
does  not  provoke  even  a  simple  rash.  No- 
thing could  be  more  harmless  than  his  coat. 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  the  cause  of  the 
irritation  lies  elsewhere  than  in  the  barbs.  If 
the  barbed  bristles  were  enough  to  poison  the 
fingers,  most  hairy  caterpillars  would  be  dan- 
gerous, for  nearly  all  have  spiny  bristles.  We 
find,  on  the  contrary,  that  virulence  is  be- 
stowed upon  a  very  small  number,  which  are 
not  distinguished  from  the  rest  by  any  special 
structure  of  the  hair. 

That  the  barbs  have  a  part  to  play,  that  of 
fixing  the  irritant  atom  upon  the  epidermis, 
of  keeping  it  anchored  in  its  place,  is,  after  all, 
possible;  but  the  shooting  pains  cannot  by 
any  means  be  caused  by  the  mere  prick  of  so 
delicate  a  harpoon. 

Much  less  slender,  the  hairs  clustered 
138 


The  Stinging  Power 

into  pads  on  the  prickly  pears  are  fero- 
ciously barbed.  Woe  to  the  fingers  that 
handle  this  kind  of  velvet  too  confidently ! 
At  the  least  touch  they  are  pierced  with  har- 
poons whose  extraction  involves  a  severe  tax 
upon  our  patience.  Other  inconvenience  there 
is  little  or  none,  for  the  action  of  the  barb  is 
in  this  case  purely  mechanical.  Supposing — a 
very  doubtful  thing — that  the  Processionary's 
hairs  could  penetrate  our  skin,  they  would  act 
likewise,  only  with  less  effect,  if  they  had 
merely  their  sharp  points  and  their  barbs. 
What  then  do  they  possess  in  addition? 

They  must  have,  not  inside  them,  like  the 
hairs  of  the  nettle,  but  outside,  on  the  surface, 
an  irritant  agent ;  they  must  be  coated  with  a 
poisonous  mixture,  which  makes  them  act  by 
simple  contact. 

Let  us  remove  this  virus,  by  means  of  a 
solvent;  and  the  Processionary's  darts,  re- 
duced to  their  insignificant  mechanical  action, 
will  be  harmless.  The  solvent,  on  the  other 
hand,  rid  of  all  hairs  by  filtration,  will  be 
charged  with  the  irritant  element,  which  we 
shall  be  able  to  test  without  the  agency  of  the 
hairs.  Isolated  and  concentrated,  the  sting- 
ing element,  far  from  losing  by  this  treat- 

i39 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

ment,  ought  to  gain  in  virulence.  So  reflec- 
tion tells  us. 

The  solvents  tried  are  confined  to  three: 
water,  spirits  of  wine  and  sulphuric  ether.  I 
employ  the  latter  by  preference,  although  the 
other  two,  spirits  qf  wine  especially,  have 
yielded  satisfactory  results.  To  simplify  the 
experiment,  instead  of  submitting  to  the  action 
of  the  solvent  the  entire  caterpillar,  who 
would  complicate  the  extract  with  his  fats 
and  his  nutritive  juices,  I  prefer  to  employ 
the  cast  skin  alone. 

I  therefore  collect,  on  the  one  hand,  the 
heap  of  dry  skins  which  the  moult  of  the 
second  phase  has  left  on  the  dome  of  the  silken 
dwelling  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  skins 
which  the  caterpillars  have  rejected  in  their 
cocoons  before  becoming  chrysalids;  and  I 
leave  the  two  lots  to  infuse,  separately,  in  sul- 
phuric ether  for  twenty-four  hours.  The  in- 
fusion is  colourless.  The  liquid,  carefully 
filtered,  is  exposed  to  spontaneous  evapora- 
tion; and  the  skins  are  rinsed  with  ether  in  the 
filter,  several  times  over. 

There  are  now  two  tests  to  be  made :  one 
with  the  skins  and  one  with  the  product  of 
maceration.  The  first  is  as  conclusive  as  can 
140 


The  Stinging  Power 

be.  Hairy  as  in  the  normal  state  and  per- 
fectly dried,  the  skins  of  both  lots,  drained 
by  the  ether,  produce  not  the  slightest  effect, 
although  I  rub  myself  with  them,  without  the 
least  caution,  at  the  juncture  of  the  fingers,  a 
spot  very  sensitive  to  stinging. 

The  hairs  are  the  same  as  before  the  action 
of  the  solvent :  they  have  lost  none  of  their 
barbs,  of  their  javelin-points;  and  yet  they  are 
ineffectual.  They  produce  no  pain  or  incon- 
venience whatever.  Deprived  of  their  toxic 
smearing,  these  thousands  of  darts  become  so 
much  harmless  velvet.  The  Hedgehog  Cater- 
pillar and  the  Brush  Caterpillar  are  not  more 
inoffensive. 

The  second  test  is  more  positive  and  so 
conclusive  in  its  painful  effects  that  one  hardly 
likes  to  try  it  a  second  time.  When  the 
ethereal  infusion  is  reduced  by  spontaneous 
evaporation  to  a  few  drops,  I  soak  in  it  a  slip 
of  blotting-paper  folded  in  four,  so  as  to  form 
a  square  measuring  something  over  an  inch. 
Too  unsuspecting  of  my  product,  I  do  things 
on  a  lavish  scale,  both  as  regards  the  super- 
ficial area  of  my  poor  epidermis  and  the 
quantity  of  the  virus.  To  any  one  who  might 
wish  to  renew  the  investigation  I  should  re- 
141 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

commend  a  less  generous  dose.  Lastly,  the 
square  of  paper,  that  novel  sort  of  mustard- 
plaster,  is  applied  to  the  under  surface  of  the 
fore-arm.  A  thin  waterproof  sheeting  covers 
it,  to  prevent  it  from  drying  too  rapidly ;  and 
a  bandage  holds  it  in  place. 

For  the  space  of  ten  hours,  I  feel  nothing; 
then  I  experience  an  increasing  itch  and  a 
burning  sensation  acute  enough  to  keep  me 
awake  for  the  greater  part  of  the  night.  Next 
day,  after  twenty-four  hours  of  contact,  the 
poultice  is  removed.  A  red  mark,  slightly 
swollen  and  very  clearly  outlined,  occu- 
pies the  square  which  the  poisoned  paper 
covered. 

The  skin  feels  sore,  as  though  it  had  been 
cauterized,  and  looks  as  rough  as  shagreen. 
From  each  of  its  tiny  pustules  trickles  a  drop 
of  serous  fluid,  which  hardens  into  a  substance 
similar  in  colour  to  gum-arabic.  This  oozing 
continues  for  a  couple  of  days  and  more. 
Then  the  inflamation  abates;  the  pain,  hitherto 
very  trying,  quiets  down;  the  skin  dries  and 
comes  off  in  little  flakes.  All  is  over,  except 
the  red  mark,  which  remains  for  a  long  time, 
so  tenacious  in  its  effects  is  this  extract  of 
Processionary.  Three  weeks  after  the  ex- 
142 


The  Stinging  Power 

periment,  the  little  square  on  the  fore-arm 
subjected  to  the  poison  is  still  discoloured. 

For  thus  branding  one's  self,  does  one  at 
least  obtain  some  small  reward?  Yes.  A 
little  truth  is  the  balm  spread  upon  the  wound; 
and  indeed  truth  is  a  sovran  balm.  It  will 
come  presently  to  solace  us  for  much  greater 
sufferings. 

For  the  moment,  this  painful  experiment 
shows  us  that  the  irritation  has  not  as  its 
primary  cause  the  hairiness  of  the  Procession- 
ary.  Here  is  no  hair,  no  barb,  no  dart.  All 
of  that  has  been  retained  by  the  filter.  We 
have  nothing  now  but  a  poisonous  agent  ex- 
tracted by  the  solvent,  the  ether.  This  ir- 
ritant element  recalls,  to  a  certain  extent, 
that  of  cantharides,  which  acts  by  simple  con- 
tact. My  square  of  poisoned  blotting-paper 
was  a  sort  of  plaster,  which,  instead  of  raising 
the  epidermis  in  great  blisters,  makes  it  bristle 
with  tiny  pustules. 

The  part  played  by  the  barbed  hairs,  those 
atoms  which  the  least  movement  of  the  air 
disseminates  in  all  directions,  is  confined  to 
conveying  to  our  face  and  hands  the  irritant 
substance  in  which  they  are  impregnated. 
Their  barbs  hold  them  in  place  and  thus  per- 

143 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

mit  the  virus  to  act.  It  is  even  probable  that, 
by  means  of  slight  scratches  which  would 
otherwise  pass  unnoticed,  they  assist  the  action 
of  the  stinging  fluid. 

Shortly  after  handling  the  Processionaries, 
a  delicate  epidermis  becomes  tumefied,  red  and 
painful.  Without  being  immediate,  the  action 
of  the  caterpillar  is  prompt.  The  extract 
made  with  ether,  on  the  other  hand,  causes 
pain  and  rubefaction  only  after  a  longish  in- 
terval. What  does  it  need  to  produce  more 
rapid  ulceration?  To  all  appearances,  the 
action  of  the  hairs. 

The  direct  stinging  caused  by  the  caterpillar 
is  nothing  like  so  serious  as  that  produced  by 
the  ethereal  extract  concentrated  in  a  few 
drops.  Never  before,  in  my  most  painful  mis- 
adventures, whether  with  the  silken  purses  or 
their  inhabitants,  have  I  seen  my  skin  covered 
with  serous  pustules  and  peeling  off  in  flakes. 
This  time  it  is  a  veritable  sore,  anything  but 
pleasing  to  the  eye. 

The  aggravation  is  easily  explained.  I 
soaked  in  the  ether  some  fifty  discarded  skins. 
The  few  drops  which  remained  after  the 
evaporation  and  which  were  absorbed  by  the 
square  of  blotting-paper  represented,  there- 

144 


The  Stinging  Power 

fore,  the  virulence  of  a  single  insect  fifty 
times  increased.  My  little  blistering-plaster 
was  equivalent  to  the  contact  of  fifty  cater- 
pillars at  the  same  spot.  There  is  no  doubt 
that,  if  we  left  them  to  steep  in  considerable 
numbers,  we  should  obtain  extracts  of  really 
formidable  strength.  It  is  quite  possible  that 
medical  science  will  one  day  make  good  use 
of  this  powerful  counter-irritant,  which  is  ut- 
terly different  from  cantharides. 

Whether  voluntary  victims  of  our  curiosity, 
which,  while  affording  no  other  satisfaction 
than  that  of  knowledge,  exposes  us  to  an  into- 
lerable itch,  or  sufferers  through  an  accident, 
what  can  we  do  to  give  a  little  relief  to  the 
irritation  caused  by  the  Processionary?  It  is 
good  to  know  the  origin  of  the  evil,  but  it 
would  be  better  to  apply  a  remedy. 

One  day,  with  both  hands  sore  from  the 
prolonged  examination  of  a  nest,  I  try  without 
success  lotions  of  alcohol,  glycerine,  oil  and 
soapsuds.  Nothing  does  any  good.  I  then 
remember  a  palliative  employed  by  Reaumur 
against  the  sting  of  the  Oak  Processionary. 
Without  telling  us  how  he  came  to  know  of 
the  strange  specific,  the  master  rubbed  himself 
with  parsley  and  felt  a  good  deal  the  better 

145 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

for  it.  He  adds  that  any  other  leaf  would 
probably  assuage  the  irritation  in  the  same 
way. 

This  is  a  fitting  occasion  for  reopening  the 
subject.  Here,  in  a  corner  of  the  garden,  is 
parsley,  green  and  abundant  as  one  could  wish. 
What  other  plant  can  we  compare  with  it?  I 
choose  the  purslain,  the  spontaneous  guest  of 
my  vegetable-beds.  Mucilaginous  and  fleshy 
as  it  is,  it  readily  crushes,  yielding  an  emollient 
liniment.  I  rub  one  hand  with  parsley  and 
the  other  with  purslain,  pressing  hard  enough 
to  reduce  the  leaves  to  a  paste.  The  result 
deserves  attention. 

With  the  parsley,  the  burning  is  a  little  less 
acute,  it  is  true,  but,  though  relieved,  it  per- 
sists for  a  long  time  yet  and  continues  trouble- 
some. With  the  purslain,  the  petty  torture 
ceases  almost  at  once  and  so  completely  that 
I  no  longer  notice  it.  My  nostrum  possesses 
incontestable  virtues.  I  recommend  it  quietly, 
without  blatant  advertisement,  to  any  one 
who  may  be  persecuted  by  the  Processionary. 
Foresters,  in  their  war  upon  caterpillars' 
nests,  should  find  great  relief  from  it. 

I  have  also  obtained  good  results  with  the 
leaves  of  the  tomato  and  the  lettuce;  and. 
146 


The  Stinging  Power 

without  pursuing  this  botanical  survey  further, 
I  remain  convinced,  with  Reaumur,  that  any 
tender  juicy  foliage  would  possess  a  certain 
efficacy. 

As  for  the  mode  of  action  of  this  specific,  I 
admit  that  I  do  not  understand  it,  any  more 
than  I  can  perceive  the  mode  of  action  of  the 
caterpillar's  virus.  Moliere's  medical  student 
explained  the  soporific  properties  of  opium  by 
saying: 

"Qiria  est  in  eo  virtus  dormitava  cujus  est 
proprietas  sensus  assonpire." 

Let  us  say  likewise :  the  crushed  herb  calms 
the  burning  itch  because  it  possesses  a  calm- 
ing virtue  whose  property  is  to  assuage 
itching. 

The  quip  is  a  good  deal  more  philosophical 
than  it  looks.  What  do  we  know  of  our 
remedies  or  of  anything?  We  perceive 
effects,  but  we  cannot  get  back  to  their 
causes. 

In  my  village  and  for  some  distance  around 
it,  there  is  a  popular  belief  that  to  relieve  the 
pain  of  a  Wasp's  or  Bee's  sting  all  that  we 
need  do  is  to  rub  the  part  stung  with  three 
sorts  of  herbs.  Take,  they  say,  three  kinds  of 
herbs,  the  first  that  come  to  hand,  make  them 

147 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

into  a  bunch  and  rub  hard.  The  prescription, 
by  all  accounts,  is  infallible. 

I  thought  at  first  that  this  was  one  of  those 
therapeutic  absurdities  which  have  their  birth 
in  rustic  imaginations.  After  making  a  trial, 
I  admit  that  what  sounds  like  a  nonsensical 
remedy  sometimes  has  something  genuine 
about  it.  Friction  with  three  kinds  of  herbs 
does  actually  deaden  the  sting  of  the  Wasp 
or  Bee. 

I  hasten  to  add  that  the  same  success  is 
achieved  with  a  single  herb;  and  so  the  result 
agrees  with  what  the  parsley  and  purslain 
have  taught  .us  in  respect  of  the  irritation 
caused  by  the  Processionary. 

Why  three  herbs  when  one  is  enough? 
Three  is  the  preeminently  lucky  number;  it 
smacks  of  witchcraft,  which  is  far  from  de- 
tracting from  the  virtues  of  the  unguent.  All 
rustic  medicine  has  a  touch  of  magic  about  it; 
and  there  is  merit  in  doing  things  by  threes. 

Perhaps  the  specific  of  the  three  herbs  may 
even  date  back  to  the  materia  mcdica  of  an- 
tiquity. Dioscorides  recommends  rpiqwXXov: 
it  is,  he  states,  good  for  the  bite  of  venomous 
serpents.  To  determine  this  celebrated  three- 
leaved  plant  exactly  would  not  be  easy.  Is  it 
148 


The  Stinging  Power 

a  common  clover?  The  psoralea,  with  its 
pitchy  odour?  The  menyanthes,  or  uck-bean, 
that  inmate  of  the  chilly  peat-bogs?  The 
oxalis,  the  wood-sorrel  of  the  country-side? 
We  cannot  tell  for  certain.  The  botany  of 
those  days  was  innocent  of  the  descriptive 
conscientiousness  of  ours.  The  plant  which 
acted  as  a  poison-antidote  grouped  its  leaves 
by  threes.  That  is  its  essential  characteristic. 
Again  the  cabalistic  number,  essential  tcr 
medical  virtues  as  conceived  by  the  first  heal- 
ers. The  peasant,  a  tenacious  conservative, 
has  preserved  the  ancient  remedy,  but,  by  a 
happy  inspiration,  has  changed  the  three 
original  leaves  into  three  different  herbs;  he 
has  elaborated  the  r/oe'^r'AAor  into  the  three- 
fold foliage  which  he  crushes  on  the  Bee's 
sting.  I  seem  to  perceive  a  certain  relation 
between  these  artless  wr.ys  and  the  crushing 
of  parsley  as  described  by  Reaumur, 


149 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  ARBUTUS  CATERPILLAR 

1HAVE  not  found  many  species  of  urtica- 
ting  caterpillars  in  the  small  corner  of  my 
investigations.  I  know  of  two  only:  the  Pine 
Caterpillar  and  the  Arbutus  Caterpillar.  The 
latter  belongs  to  the  genus  Liparis.  His 
Moth,  who  is  a  glorious  snowy  white,  with 
the  last  rings  of  the  abdomen  bright  russet, 
is  very  like  Liparis  auriftua,  FAB.,  from  whom 
she  differs  not  only  in  size — she  is  smaller — 
but,  above  all,  in  the  field  of  operations  se- 
lected by  her  caterpillar.  Is  the  species  class- 
ified in  our  lists?  I  do  not  know;  and  really 
it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  enquire.  What 
does  a  Latin  name  matter,  when  one  cannot 
mistake  the  insect?  I  shall  be  sparing  of  de- 
tail concerning  the  Arbutus  Caterpillar,  for 
he  is  far  less  interesting  in  his  habits  than  the 
Pine  Processionary.  Only  his  ravages  and  his 
poison  deserve  serious  attention. 

On  the  Serignan  hills,  sunny  heights  upon 
which   the    Mediterranean    vegetation    comes 
to  an   end,   the  arbutus,    or   strawberry-tree, 
150 


The  Arbutus  Caterpillar 

abounds :  a  magnificent  shrub,  with  lustrous 
evergreen  foliage,  vermilion  fruit,  round  and 
fleshy  as  strawberries,  and  hanging  clusters  of 
little  white  bells  resembling  those  of  the  lily 
of  the  valley.  When  the  frosts  come  at  the 
approach  of  December,  nothing  could  be  more 
charming  than  the  arbutus,  decking  its  gay 
verdure  with  both  fruits  and  flowers,  with 
coral  balls  and  plump  little  bells.  Alone  of 
our  flora,  it  combines  the  flowering  of  to-day 
with  the  ripening  of  yesterday. 

Then  the  bright-red  raspberries — the  dar- 
bouses,  as  we  call  them  here — beloved  by  the 
Blackbird,  grow  soft  and  sweet  to  the  palate. 
The  housewives  pluck  them  and  make  them 
into  preserves  that  are  not  without  merit.  As 
for  the  shrub  itself,  when  the  season  for  cut- 
ting has  come,  it  is  not,  despite  its  beauty, 
respected  by  the  woodman.  It  serves,  like  any 
trivial  brushwood,  in  the  making  of  faggots 
for  heating  ovens.  Frequently,  too,  the  showy 
arbutus  is  ravaged  by  a  caterpillar  yet  more 
to  be  dreaded  than  the  woodcutter.  After 
this  glutton  has  been  at  it,  it  could  not  look 
more  desolate  had  it  been  scorched  and  black- 
ened by  fire. 

The  Moth,  a  pretty  little,  snow-white  Borru 

I5T 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

byx,  with  superb  antennary  plumes  and  a  cot- 
ton-wool tippet  on  her  thorax,  lays  her  eggs 
on  a  leaf  of  the  arbutus  and,  in  so  doing, 
starts  the  evil. 

You  see  a  little  cushion  with  pointed  ends, 
rather  less  than  an  inch  in  length;  a  white 
eiderdown,  tinged  with  russet,  thick,  very  soft 
and  formed  of  hairs  fixed  with  a  little  gum  by 
the  end  that  points  towards  the  upper  ex- 
tremity of  the  leaf.  The  eggs  are  sunk  in 
the  thickness  of  this  soft  shelter.  They  pos- 
sess a  metallic  sheen  and  look  like  so  many 
nickel  granules. 

Hatching  takes  place  in  September.  The 
first  meals  are  made  at  the  expense  of  the 
native  leaf;  the  later  ones  at  the  expense  of 
the  leaves  all  around.  One  surface  only  is 
nibbled,  usually  the  upper;  the  other  remains 
intact,  trellised  by  the  network  of  veins, 
which  are  too  horny  for  the  new-born  grubs. 

The  consumption  of  leaves  is  effected  with 
scrupulous  economy.  Instead  of  grazing  at 
hazard  and  using  up  the  pasturage  at  the  dic- 
tates of  individual  caprice,  the  flock  progresses 
gradually  from  the  base  to  the  tip  of  the  leaf, 
with  all  heads  ranged  in  a  frontal  attack, 
almost  in  a  straight  line.  Not  a  bite  is  taken 
152 


The  Arbutus  Caterpillar 

beyond  this  line,  until  all  that  lies  on  this  side 
of  it  is  eaten  up. 

As  it  advances,  the  flock  throws  a  few 
threads  across  the  denuded  portion,  where 
nothing  remains  but  the  veins  and  the  epi- 
dermis of  the  opposite  surface.  Thus  is 
woven  a  gossamer  veil  serving  as  a  shelter 
from  the  fierce  rays  of  the  sun  and  as  the 
parachute  which  is  essential  to  these  weak- 
lings, whom  a  puff  of  wind  would  carry  away. 

As  the  result  of  a  more  rapid  desiccation  on 
the  ravaged  surface,  the  leaf  soon  begins  to 
curl  of  its  own  accord,  curving  into  a  gondola 
which  is  covered  by  a  continuous  awning 
stretched  from  end  to  end.  The  herbage  is 
then  exhausted.  The  flock  abandons  it  and 
begins  again  elsewhere  in  the  near  neighbour- 
hood. 

After  various  temporary  pastures  of  this 
kind,  in  November,  when  the  cold  weather  is 
at  hand,  the  caterpillars  settle  permanently  at 
the  end  of  a  bough.  Nibbled  one  by  one  on 
their  upper  surfaces,  the  leaves  of  the  terminal 
bunch  draw  close  to  their  neighbours,  which, 
excoriated  in  their  turn,  do  the  same,  until 
the  whole  forms  a  bundle,  which  looks  as  if  it 
had  been  scorched,  lashed  together  with  mag- 

J53 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

nificent  white  silk.  This  is  the  winter  habita- 
tion, whence  the  family,  still  very  feeble,  will 
not  issue  until  the  fine  weather  returns. 

The  assembling  of  this  leafy  framework  is 
not  due  to  any  special  industry  on  the  cater- 
pillars' part;  they  do  not  stretch  their  threads 
from  leaf  to  leaf  and  then,  by  pulling  at  these 
ropes,  bring  the  various  pieces  of  the  structure 
into  contact.  It  is  merely  the  result  of  des- 
iccation on  the  nibbled  surfaces.  Fixed  cables, 
it  is  true,  solidly  bind  together  the  leaves 
brought  close  to  one  another  by  the  contrac- 
tion due  to  their  aridity;  but  they  do  not  in 
any  way  play  the  part  of  a  motive  mechanism 
in  the  work  of  the  assemblage. 

No  hauling-ropes  are  here,  no  capstans  to 
move  the  timbers.  The  feeble  creatures  would 
be  incapable  of  such  effort.  The  thing  hap- 
pens of  itself.  Sometimes  a  floating  thread, 
the  plaything  of  the  air,  enlaces  some  adjacent 
leaf.  This  chance  footbridge  tempts  the  ex- 
plorers, who  hasten  to  strip  the  accidental 
prize;  and,  without  other  labour,  yet  one  more 
leaf  bends  of  its  own  accord  and  is  added 
to  the  enclosure.  For  the  most  part,  the 
house  is  built  by  eating;  a  lodging  is  procured 
by  dint  of  banqueting. 

154 


The  Arbutus  Caterpillar 

A  comfortable  house,  tightly  closed  and 
well-caulked,  proof  against  rain  and  snow. 
We,  to  guard  ourselves  against  draughts,  put 
sand-bags  against  the  cracks  of  our  doors  and 
windows;  the  extravagant  little  Arbutus  Cat- 
erpillar applies  pipings  of  silk-velvet  to  his 
shutters.  Things  should  be  cosy  inside,  how- 
ever damp  the  fog.  In  bad  weather,  the  rain 
drips  into  my  house.  The  leaf-dwelling  knows 
nothing  of  such  troubles,  so  true  is  it  that 
animals  often  enjoy  advantages  which  rele< 
gate  human  industry  to  the  second  rank. 

In  this  shelter  of  silk  and  foliage,  the  worst 
three  or  four  months  of  the  year  are  passed 
in  a  state  of  complete  abstinence.  No  out- 
ings; not  a  bite  of  food.  In  March,  this 
torpor  ceases;  and  the  recluses,  those  starving 
bellies,  shift  their  quarters. 

The  community  now  splits  up  into  squads, 
which  spread  themselves  anyhow  over  the  ad- 
jacent verdure.  This  is  the  period  of  serious 
devastation.  The  caterpillars  no  longer  con- 
fine themselves  to  nibbling  one  surface  of  the 
leaf;  their  keen  appetites  demand  the  whole 
of  it,  down  to  the  stalk.  And  now,  stage  by 
stage,  halt  by  halt,  the  arbutus  is  shorn  bare. 

The  vagabonds  do  not  return  to  their  win- 

155 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

ter  dwelling,  which  has  become  too  closely 
cramped.  They  reassemble  in  groups  and 
weave,  here,  there  and  everywhere,  shapeless 
tents,  temporary  huts,  abandoned  for  others 
as  the  pasturage  round  about  becomes  ex- 
hausted. The  denuded  boughs,  to  all  seem- 
ing ravaged  by  fire,  take  on  the  look  of 
squalid  drying-grounds  hung  with  rags. 

In  June,  having  acquired  their  full  growth, 
the  caterpillars  leave  the  arbutus-tree,  descend 
to  earth  and  spin  themselves,  amid  the  dead 
leaves,  a  niggardly  cocoon,  in  which  the  in- 
sect's hairs  to  some  extent  supplement  its  silk. 
A  month  later,  the  Bombyx  appears. 

In  his  final  dimensions,  the  caterpillar  mea- 
sures nearly  an  inch  and  a  quarter  in  length. 
His  costume  does  not  lack  richness  or  origin- 
ality: a  black  skin  with  a  double  row  of 
orange  specks  on  the  back;  long  grey  hairs 
arranged  in  bunches;  short,  snow-white  tufts 
on  the  sides;  and  a  couple  of  brown-velvet 
protuberances  on  the  first  two  rings  of  the  ab- 
domen and  also  on  the  last  ring  but  one. 

The    most    remarkable    feature,    however, 

consists  of  two  tiny  craters,  always  open  wide : 

two  cunningly  fashioned  goblets  which  might 

have  been  wrought  from  a  drop  of  red  seal- 

156 


The  Arbutus  Caterpillar 

ing-wax.  The  sixth  and  seventh  segments  of 
the  abdomen  are  the  only  ones  that  bear  these 
vermilion  goblets,  placed  in  the  middle  of  the 
back.  I  do  not  know  the  function  of  these 
little  cups.  Perhaps  they  should  be  regarded 
as  organs  of  information,  similar  to  the  Pine 
Processionary's  dorsal  mouths. 

The  Arbutus  Caterpillar  is  much  dreaded 
in  the  village.  Woodcutters,  faggot-binders, 
brushwood-gatherers,  all  are  unanimous  in  re- 
viling him.  They  have  such  a  painfully  vivid 
memory  of  the  irritation  that,  when  I  listen 
to  them,  I  can  hardly  repress  a  movement  of 
the  shoulders  to  relieve  the  imaginary  itching 
in  the  middle  of  my  back.  I  seem  to  feel  the 
arbutus-faggot,  laden  with  its  glowing  rags, 
rubbing  my  bare  skin. 

It  is,  it  appears,  a  disagreeable  job  to  cut 
down  the  shrub  alive  with  caterpillars  during 
the  hottest  part  of  the  day  and  to  shake,  under 
the  blows  of  the  axe,  that  sort  of  upas-tree, 
shedding  poison  in  its  shade.  As  for  me,  I 
have  no  complaint  to  make  of  my  relations 
with  the  ravager  of  the  arbutus.  I  have  very 
often  handled  him;  I  have  applied  his  fur  to 
the  tips  of  my  fingers,  my  neck  and  even  my 
face,  for  hours  at  a  time;  I  have  ripped  up 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

'.he  nests  to  extract  their  populations  for  the 
purpose  of  my  researches;  but  I  have  never 
been  inconvenienced.  Save  in  exceptional  cir- 
cumstances, the  approach  of  the  moult  per- 
haps, this  would  need  a  skin  less  tough  than 
mine. 

The  thin  skin  of  a  child  does  not  enjoy  the 
same  immunity,  as  witness  little  Paul,  who, 
having  helped  me  to  empty  some  nests  and  to 
collect  the  inhabitants  with  my  forceps,  was 
for  hours  scratching  his  neck,  which  was  dot- 
ted with  red  wheals.  My  ingenuous  assistant 
was  proud  of  his  sufferings  in  the  cause  of 
science,  which  resulted  from  heedlessness  and 
also  perhaps  from  bravado.  In  twenty-four 
hours,  the  trouble  disappeared,  without  leav- 
ing any  serious  consequences. 

All  this  hardly  tallies  with  the  painful  ex- 
periences of  which  the  woodcutters  talk.  Do 
they  exaggerate?  That  is  hardly  credible; 
they  are  so  unanimous.  Then  something  must 
have  been  lacking  in  my  experiments:  the  pro- 
pitious moment  apparently,  the  proper  degree 
of  maturity  in  the  caterpillar,  the  high  tem- 
perature which  aggravates  the  poison. 

To  show  itself  in  its  full  severity, the  urtica- 
tion  demands  the  cooperation  of  certain  un- 
158 


The  Arbutus  Caterpillar 

defined  circumstances;  and  this  cooperation 
was  wanting.  Chance  perhaps  will  one  day 
teach  me  more  than  I  want  to  know;  I  shall 
be  attacked  in  the  manner  familiar  to  the 
woodcutters  and  shall  pass  a  night  in  torment, 
tossing  and  turning  as  though  on  a  bed  of 
live  coals. 

What  the  direct  contact  of  the  caterpillar 
did  not  teach  me  the  artifices  of  chemistry  will 
demonstrate  with  a  violence  which  I  was  far 
from  expecting.  I  treat  the  caterpillar  with 
ether,  just  as  I  treated  the  slough  of  the  Pine 
Processionary.  The  number  of  the  creatures 
taken  for  the  infusion — they  are  pretty  small 
as  yet,  are  scarcely  half  the  size  which 
they  will  attain  when  mature — is  about  a 
hundred.  After  a  couple  of  days'  maceration, 
I  filter  the  liquid  and  leave  it  to  evaporate 
freely.  With  the  few  drops  that  remain  I 
soak  a  square  of  blotting-paper  folded  in  four 
and  apply  it  to  the  inner  surface  of  my  fore- 
arm, with  a  thin  rubber  sheet  and  a  bandage. 
It  is  an  exact  repetition  of  what  I  did  with 
the  Pine  Processionary. 

Applied  in  the  morning,  the  blister  hardly 
takes  effect  until  the  following  night.  Then 
by  degrees  the  irritation  becomes  unendurable; 

150 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

and  the  burning  sensation  is  so  acute  that  I  am 
tormented  every  moment  with  the  desire  to 
tear  off  the  bandage.  However,  I  hold  out. 
but  at  the  cost  of  a  sleepless,  feverish  night. 

How  well  I  now  understand  what  the 
woodcutters  tell  me !  I  had  less  than  a  square 
inch  of  skin  subjected  to  the  torture.  What 
would  it  be  if  Ihad  my  back,  shoulders,  neck, 
face  and  arms  tormented  in  this  fashion?  f 
pity  you  with  all  my  heart,  you  labourers  who 
are  troubled  by  the  hateful  creature. 

On  the  morrow,  the  infernal  paper  is  re- 
moved. The  skin  is  red  and  swollen,  co- 
vered with  tiny  pimples  whence  ooze  drops 
of  serous  fluid.  For  five  days  the  itching  per- 
sists, with  a  sharp,  burning  pain,  and  the  run- 
ning from  the  pimples  continues.  Then  the 
dead  skin  dries  and  comes  off  in  scabs.  All  is 
over,  save  the  redness,  which  is  still  percep- 
tible a  month  later. 

The  demonstration  is  accomplished;  the 
Arbutus  Caterpillar,  capable  as  he^  is  of  pro- 
ducing, under  certain  conditions,  the  same  ef- 
fects which  I  obtain  by  artificial  means,  fully 
deserves  his  odious  reputation. 


160 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN  INSECT  VIRUS 

ONE  step  forward  has  been  taken,  but  only 
a  very  little  one  as  yet,  in  the  problem  of 
the  stinging  caterpillars.  The  drenching  with 
ether  teaches  us  that  hairiness  plays  a  very 
secondary  part  in  the  matter.  With  its  dust 
of  broken  bristles,  which  the  least  breath 
wafts  in  all  directions,  it  bothers  us  by  depo- 
siting and  fixing  its  irritant  coating  upon  us; 
but  this  virus  does  not  originate  in  the  crea- 
ture's fleece;  it  comes  from  elsewhere.  What 
is  the  source  of  it? 

I  will  enter  into  a  few  details.  Perhaps, 
in  so  doing,  I  shall  be  of  service  to  the  novice. 
The  subject,  which  is  very  simple  and  sharply 
defined,  will  show  us  how  one  question  gives 
rise  to  another;  how  experimental  tests  con- 
firm or  upset  hypotheses,  which  are,  as  it  were, 
a  temporary  scaffolding;  and,  lastly,  how 
logic,  that  severe  examiner,  leads  us  by  de- 
grees to  generalities  which  are  far  more  im- 
portant than  anything  that  we  were  led  to 
anticipate  at  the  outset. 
161 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

And,  first  of  all,  does  the  Pine  Procession- 
ary  possess  a  special  glandular  structure 
which  elaborates  the  virus,  as  do,  for  in- 
stance, the  poison-glands  of  the  Wasps  and 
Bees?  By  no  means.  Anatomy  shows  that 
the  internal  structure  of  the  stinging  cater- 
pillar is  similar  to  that  of  the  harmless  one. 
There  is  nothing  more  and  nothing  less. 

The  poisonous  product,  of  unlocalized  ori- 
gin, results,  therefore,  from  a  general  process 
in  which  the  entire  organism  is  brought  into 
play.  It  should,  in  consequence,  be  found  in 
the  blood,  after  the  manner  of  urea  in  higher 
animals.  This  is  a  suggestion  of  grave  im- 
port, but  after  all  quite  valueless  without  the 
conclusive  verdict  of  actual  experiment. 

Five  or  six  Processionaries,  pricked  with 
the  point  of  a  needle,  furnish  me  with  a  few 
drops  of  blood.  I  allow  these  to  soak  into  a 
small  square  of  blotting-paper,  which  I  then 
apply  to  my  fore-arm  with  a  waterproof 
bandage.  It  is  not  without  a  certain  anxiety 
that  I  await  the  outcome  of  the  experiment. 
The  result  will  show  whether  the  conclusions 
already  forming  in  my  mind  will  receive  a 
solid  basis  or  vanish  into  thin  air. 

At  a  late  hour  of  the  night,  the  pain  wakes 
162 


An  Insect  Virus 

me,  a  pain  which  this  time  is  an  intellectual 
joy.  My  anticipations  were  correct.  The 
blood  does  indeed  contain  the  venomous  sub- 
stance. It  causes  itching,  swelling,  a  burning 
sensation,  an  exudation  of  serum  and,  lastly, 
a  shedding  of  the  skin.  I  learn  more  than  I 
had  hoped  to  learn.  The  test  is  more  valuable 
than  that  of  mere  contact  with  the  caterpillar 
could  have  been.  Instead  of  treating  myself 
with  the  small  quantity  of  poison  with  which 
the  hairs  are  smeared,  I  have  gone  to  the 
source  of  the  irritant  substance  and  I  thereby 
gain  an  increase  of  discomfort. 

Very  happy  in  my  suffering,  which  sets  me 
on  a  safe  path,  I  continue  my  enquiry  by  argu- 
ing thus:  the  virus  in  the  blood  cannot  be  a 
living  substance,  one  that  takes  part  in  the 
working  of  the  organism;  it  is  rather,  like 
urea,  a  form  of  decay,  an  offthrow  of  the  vital 
process,  a  waste  product  which  is  expelled  as 
and  when  it  forms.  If  this  be  the  case,  I 
ought  to  find  it  in  the  caterpillar's  droppings, 
which  are  made  up  of  both  the  digestive  and 
the  urinary  residues. 

Let  us  describe  the  new  experiment,  which 
is  no  less  positive  than  the  last.  I  leave  a  few 
pinches  of  very  dry  droppings,  such  as  are 
163 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

found  in  abundance  in  the  old  nests,  to  soak 
for  two  days  in  sulphuric  ether.  The  liquid, 
coloured  as  it  is  with  the  chlorophyll  of  the 
caterpillar's  food,  turns  a  dirty  green.  Then 
I  repeat  precisely  the  process  which  I  men- 
tioned when  I  wanted  to  prove  the  innocuous- 
ness  of  the  hairs  deprived  of  their  poisonous 
varnish.  I  refer  to  it  a  second  time  in  order 
thoroughly  to  explain  the  method  pursued  and 
to  save  repetition  in  the  various  experiments 
undertaken. 

The  infusion  is  filtered,  spontaneously  eva- 
porated and  reduced  to  a  few  drops,  with 
which  I  soak  my  stinger.  This  consists  of  a 
small  piece  of  blotting-paper,  folded  in  four 
to  increase  the  thickness  of  the  pad  and  to 
give  it  a  greater  power  of  absorption.  An 
area  of  a  square  inch  or  less  suffices;  in  some 
cases  it  is  even  too  much.  A  novice  in  this 
kind  of  research-work,  I  was  too  lavish  with 
the  liniment;  and  in  return  for  my  generosity 
I  had  such  a  bad  time  that  I  make  a  point  of 
warning  any  reader  desirous  of  repeating  the 
experiment  upon  his  own  person. 

Fully  soaked,  the  square  of  paper  is  applied 
to  the  fore-arm,  on  the  inner  surface,  where 
the  skin  is  more  tender.  A  sheet  of  rubber 
164 


An  Insect  Virus 

covers  it  and,  being  waterproof,  guards 
against  the  loss  of  the  poison.  Finally,  a 
linen  bandage  keeps  the  whole  in  place. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  4th  of  June  1897, 
a  memorable  date  for  me,  I  test,  as  I  have 
just  said,  the  etheric  extract  of  the  Procession- 
ary's  droppings.  All  night  long,  I  feel  a  vio- 
lent itching,  a  burning  sensation  and  shooting 
pains.  On  the  following  day,  after  twenty 
hours  of  contact,  I  remove  the  dressing. 

The  venomous  liquid,  too  lavishly  employed 
in  my  fear  of  failure,  has  considerably  over- 
flowed the  limits  of  the  square  of  paper.  The 
parts  which  it  has  touched  and  still  more  the 
portion  covered  by  the  pad  are  swollen  and 
very  red;  moreover,  in  the  latter  case,  the 
skin  is  ridged,  wrinkled  and  mortified.  It 
smarts  a  little  and  itches;  and  that  is  all. 

On  the  following  day,  the  swelling  becomes 
more  pronounced  and  goes  deep  into  the  mus- 
cles, which,  when  touched  with  the  finger, 
throb  like  an  inflamed  cheek.  The  colour  is 
a  bright  carmine  and  extends  all  round  the 
spot  which  the  paper  covered.  This  is  due  to 
the  escape  of  some  of  the  liquid.  There  is  a 
plentiful  discharge  of  serum,  oozing  from  the 
sore  in  tiny  drops.  The  smarting  and  itching 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

increase  and  become  so  intense,  especially  du- 
ring the  night,  that,  to  get  a  little  sleep,  I  am 
driven  to  employ  a  palliative,  vaseline  with 
borax  and  a  lint  dressing. 

In  five  days'  time,  it  has  developed  into  a 
hideous  ulcer,  which  looks  more  painful  than 
it  really  is.  The  red,  swollen  flesh,  quivering 
and  denuded  of  its  epidermis,  provokes  com- 
miseration. The  person  who  night  and  morn- 
ing renews  my  dressing  of  lint  and  vaseline  is 
almost  sick  at  the  sight. 

"One  would  think,"  she  says,  "that  the 
dogs  had  been  gnawing  your  arm.  I  do  hope 
you  won't  try  any  more  of  those  horrible  de- 
coctions." 

I  allow  my  sympathetic  nurse  to  talk  away 
and  am  already  meditating  further  experi- 
ments, some  of  which  will  be  equally  painful. 

0  sacred  truth,  what  can  rival  thy  power  over 
us  mortals !    Thou  turnest  my  petty  torment 
into  contentment;  thou  makest  me  rejoice  in 
my  flayed  arm!     What  shall  I  gain  by  it  all? 

1  shall  know  why  a  wretched  caterpillar  sets 
us  scratching  ourselves.     Nothing  more;  and 
that  is  enough  for  me. 

Three  weeks  later,  new  skin  is  forming,  but 
is  covered  all  over  with  painful  little  pimples. 
166 


An  Insect  Virus 

The  swelling  diminishes;  the  redness  persists 
and  is  still  very  marked.  The  effect  of  the 
infernal  paper  lasts  a  long  time.  At  the  end 
of  a  month,  I  still  feel  an  itching,  a  burning 
irritation,  which  is  intensified  by  the  warmth 
of  the  bed-clothes.  At  last,  a  fortnight  later, 
all  has  disappeared  but  the  redness,  of  which 
I  shall  retain  the  marks  for  a  long  time  yet, 
though  it  grows  gradually  fainter  and  fainter, 
It  will  take  three  months  or  more  to  vanish 
altogether. 

We  now  have  some  light  on  the  problem : 
the  Processionary's  virus  is  certainly  an  off- 
throw  of  the  organic  factory,  a  waste  product 
of  the  living  edifice.  The  caterpillar  discards 
it  with  his  excrement.  But  the  material  of 
the  droppings  has  a  twofold  origin :  the 
greater  part  represents  the  digestive  residuum; 
the  rest,  in  a  much  smaller  proportion,  is  com- 
posed of  the  urinary  products.  To  which  of 
the  two  does  the  virus  belong?  Before  going 
farther,  let  us  permit  ourselves  a  digression 
which  will  assist  us  in  our  subsequent  en- 
quiries. Let  us  ask  what  advantages  the  Pro- 
cessionary  derives  from  his  urticating  product. 

I  already  hear  the  answer: 

"It  is  a  means  of  protection,  of  defence. 
167 


i  he  Lite  of  the  Caterpillar 

With    his    poisoned    mane,    he    repels    ih& 
enemy." 

I  do  not  clearly  perceive  the  bearing  of  this 
explanation.  I  think  of  the  creature's  recog- 
nized enemies:  of  the  larva  of  Calosoma 
sycophanta,  which  lives  in  the  nests  of  the 
Processionary  of  the  Oak  and  gobbles  up  the 
inhabitants  with  never  a  thought  of  their  burn- 
ing fleece;  of  the  Cuckoo,  another  mighty  con- 
sumer, so  we  are  told,  of  the  same  caterpillars, 
who  gorges  on  them  to  the  point  of  implant- 
ing in  his  gizzard  a  bristling  coat  of  their 
hairs. 

I  am  not  aware  if  the  Processionary  of 
the  Pine  pays  a  like  tribute.  I  do  know  of 
at  least  one  of  his  exploiters.  This  is  a 
Dermestes,1  who  establishes  himself  in  the 
silken  city  and  feeds  upon  the  remains  of  the 
defunct  caterpillars.  This  ghoul  assures  us 
of  the  existence  of  other  consumers,  all  fur- 
nished with  stomachs  expressly  fashioned  for 
such  highly-seasoned  fare.  For  every  har- 
vest of  living  creatures  there  is  always  a  har- 
vester. 

No,  the  theory  of  a  special  virus,  expressly 
prepared  to  defend  the  Processionary  and  his 
JA   Bacon-beetle. — Translator's  Note. 
168 


An  Insect  Virus 

emulators  in  urtication,  is  not  the  last  word  on 
the  subject.  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  believe 
in  such  a  prerogative.  Why  have  these  cater- 
pillars, more  than  others,  need  of  protection? 
What  reasons  would  make  of  them  a  caste 
apart,  endowed  with  an  exceptional  defensive 
venom  ?  The  part  which  they  play  in  the  en- 
tomological world  does  not  differ  from  that  of 
other  caterpillars,  hairy  or  smooth.  It  is  the 
naked  caterpillars  who,  in  default  of  a  mane 
capable  of  striking  awe  into  the  assailant, 
ought,  one  would  think,  to  arm  themselves 
against  danger  and  impregnate  themselves 
with  corrosives,  instead  of  remaining  a  meek 
and  easy  prey.  Is  it  likely  that  the  shaggy, 
bristling  caterpillar  should  anoint  his  fleece 
with  a  formidable  cosmetic  and  his  smooth- 
coated  kinsman  be  unfamiliar  with  the  che- 
mical properties  of  the  poison  beneath  his 
satin  skin !  These  contradictions  do  not  in- 
spire confidence. 

Have  we  not  here,  rather,  a  property  com- 
mon to  all  caterpillars,  smooth-skinned  or 
hairy?  Among  the  latter,  there  might  be 
some,  just  a  few,  who,  under  certain  special 
conditions  which  will  need  to  be  defined, 
would  be  quick  to  reveal  by  urtication  the 
169 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

venomous  nature  of  their  organic  refuse; 
the  others,  the  vast  majority,  living  outside 
these  conditions,  even  though  endowed  with 
the  necessary  product,  would  be  inexpert  at 
the  stinging  business  and  would  not  produce 
irritation  by  contact.  In  all,  the  same  virus 
is  to  be  found,  resulting  from  an  identical  vital 
process.  Sometimes  it  is  brought  into  promin- 
ence by  the  itching  which  it  produces;  some- 
times, indeed  most  often,  it  remains  latent, 
unrecognized,  if  our  artifices  do  not  intervene. 

What  shall  these  artifices  be?  Something 
very  simple.  I  address  myself  to  the  Silk- 
worm. If  there  be  an  inoffensive  caterpillar 
in  the  world,  it  is  certainly  he.  Women  and 
children  take  him  up  by  the  handful  in  our 
.Silkworm-nurseries;  and  their  delicate  fingers 
are  none  the  worse  for  it.  The  satin-skinned 
caterpillar  is  perfectly  innocuous  to  a  skin  al- 
most as  tender  as  his  own. 

But  this  lack  of  caustic  venom  is  only  ap- 
parent. I  treat  with  ether  the  excretions  of 
the  Silkworm;  and  the  infusion,  concentrated 
into  a  few  drops,  is  tested  according  to  the 
usual  method.  The  result  is  wonderfully  de- 
finite. A  smarting  sore  on  the  arm,  similar  in 
its  mode  of  appearance  and  in  its  effects  to 
170 


An  Insect  Virus 

that  produced  by  the  droppings  of  the  Proces- 
sionary,  assures  me  that  logic  was  right. 

Yes,  the  virus  which  makes  one  scratch  so 
much,  which  blisters  and  eats  away  the  skin, 
is  not  a  defensive  product  vested  in  only  a  few 
caterpillars.  I  recognize  it,  with  its  invariable 
properties,  even  in  a  caterpillar  which  at  first 
sight  appears  as  though  it  could  not  possess 
anything  of  the  kind. 

The  Silkworm's  virus,  besides,  is  not  un- 
known in  my  village.  The  casual  observation 
of  the  peasant-woman  has  outstripped  the 
precise  observation  of  the  man  of  science.  The 
women  and  girls  entrusted  with  the  rearing  of 
the  Silkworm — the  magnanarelles  as  they 
are  called — complain  of  certain  tribulations 
caused,  they  say,  by  lou  verm  di  magnan,  the 
Silkworms'  poison.  This  trouble  consists  of 
a  violent  itching  of  the  eyelids,  which  become 
red  and  swollen.  In  the  case  of  the  more 
susceptible,  there  is  a  rash  and  the  skin  peels 
off  the  fore-arm,  which  the  turned-up  sleeves 
fail  to  protect  during  work. 

I  now  know  the  cause  of  this  little  trouble, 
my  plucky  magnanarelles.  It  is  not  contact 
with  the  worm  that  afflicts  you ;  you  need  have 
no  fear  of  handling  him.  It  is  only  the  litter 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

that  you  need  distrust.  There,  jumbled  up 
with  the  remains  of  the  mulberry-leaves,  is  a 
copious  mass  of  droppings,  impregnated  with 
the  substance  which  has  just  so  painfully  eaten 
into  my  skin ;  there  and  there  only  is  lou  verin, 
as  you  call  it. 

It  is  a  relief  merely  to  know  the  cause  of 
one's  trouble;  but  I  will  provide  you  with  an- 
other consolation.  When  you  remove  the  lit- 
ter and  renew  the  leaves,  you  should  raise  the 
irritant  dust  as  little  as  possible;  you  should 
avoid  lifting  your  hands  to  your  face,  above 
all  to  your  eyes;  and  it  is  just  as  well  to  turn 
down  your  sleeves  in  order  to  protect  your 
arms.  If  you  take  these  precautions,  you  will 
suffer  no  unpleasantness. 

The  successful  result  obtained  with  the  Silk- 
worm caused  me  to  foresee  a  similar  success 
with  any  caterpillar  that  I  might  come  across. 
The  facts  fully  confirmed  my  expectations.  I 
tested  the  stercoral  pellets  of  various  cater- 
pillars, not  selected,  but  just  as  the  hazard  of 
collecting  provided  them :  the  Great  Tortoise- 
shell,  the  Heath  Fritillary,  the  Large  Cab- 
bage Butterfly,  the  Spurge  Hawk-moth,  the 
Great  Peacock  Moth,  the  Death's-head  Moth, 
the  Puss-moth,  the  Tiger-moth  and  the  Arbu- 


An  Insect  Virus 

tus  Liparis.  All  my  tests,  with  not  a  single 
exception,  brought  about  stinging,  of  various 
degrees  of  violence,  it  is  true.  I  attribute 
these  differences  in  the  result  to  the  greater 
or  lesser  quantities  of  the  virus  employed,  for 
it  is  impossible  to  measure  the  dose. 

So  the  indicating  excretion  is  common  to  all 
the  caterpillars.  By  a  very  unexpected  rever- 
sion of  the  usual  order  of  things,  the  popular 
repugnance  is  well-founded;  prejudice  be- 
rnmes  frijifl}!  all  rflffri'llarq  arp 


We  must  draw  a  distinction,  however:  with 
the  same  venomous  properties,  some  are  inof- 
fensive and  others,  far  less  numerous,  are  to- 
be  feared.  Whence  comes  this  difference? 

I  note  that  the  caterpillars  marked  out  as 
stinging  live  in  communities  and  weave  them- 
selves dwellings  of  silk,  in  which  they  stay  for 
long  periods.  Moreover,  they  are  furry.  Of 
this  number  are  the  Pine  Processionary,  the 
Oak  Processionary  and  the  caterpillars  of 
various  Lipares. 

Let  us  consider  the  first-named  in  parti- 
cular. His  nest,  a  voluminous  bag  spun  at 
the  tip  of  a  branch,  is  magnificent  in  its  silky 
whiteness,  on  the  outside;  inside,  it  is  a  dis- 
gusting cesspit.  The  colony  remains  in  it  all 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

day  and  for  the  greater  part  of  the  night.  It 
sallies  forth  in  procession  only  in  the  late 
hours  of  twilight,  to  browse  upon  the  adjacent 
foliage.  This  long  internment  leads  to  a  con- 
siderable accumulation  of  droppings  in  the 
heart  of  the  dwelling. 

From  all  the  threads  of  this  labyrinth  hang 
chaplets  of  these  droppings;  the  walls  are 
upholstered  with  them  in  all  the  corridors; 
the  little  narrow  chambers  are  encumbered 
with  them.  From  a  nest  the  size  of  a 
man's  head  I  have  obtained,  with  a  sieve, 
over  three-quarters  of  a  pint  of  stercoral 
pellets. 

Now  it  is  in  the  midst  of  this  ordure  that 
the  caterpillars  live  and  have  their  being;  in 
the  midst  of  it  they  move,  swarm  and  sleep. 
The  results  of  this  utter  contempt  for  the 
rules  of  cleanliness  are  obvious.  Certainly, 
the  Processionary  does  not  soil  his  coat  by 
contact  with  those  dry  pellets;  he  leaves  his 
home  with  his  costume  neat  and  glossy,  sug- 
gesting not  a  suspicion  of  uncleanliness.  No 
matter:  by  constantly  rubbing  against  the 
droppings,  his  bristles  are  inevitably  smeared 
with  virus  and  their  barbs  poisoned.  The 
caterpillar  becomes  irritant,  because  his  man- 

174 


An  Insect  Virus 

ner  of  life  subjects  him  to  prolonged  contact 
with  his  own  ordure.  . 

Now  consider  the  Hedgehog  Caterpillar. 
~"_  imleifl,   de"!JplLB  Ills  herce  and 

hirsute  aspect?     Because  he  lives  in  isolation  " 
and  is  always  on  the  move.     His  mane,  apt 
FtTough  it  be  to  collect  and  retain  irritant  part- 

^icles.  will  never  give  us  the  itch,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  the  caterpillar  does  not  lie 

JX^jMp^&crfQpn^  Distributeaallover  trie 
fields  andfaf  from  numerous,  owing  to  the 
caterpillar's  solitary  habits,  the  droppings, 
though  poisonous,  cannot  transfer  their  pro- 
perties to  a  fleece  which  does  not  come  into 
contact  with  them.  If  the  Hedgehog  lived 
in  a  community,  in  a  nest  serving  as  a  cess- 
pit, he  would  be  the  foremost  of  our  stinging 
caterpillars. 

At  first  sight,  the  barrack-rooms  of  the 
Silkworm-nurseries  seem  to  fulfil  the  condi- 
tions necessary  to  the  surface  venom  of  the 
worms.  Each  change  of  litter  results  in  the 
removal  of  basketfuls  of  droppings  from  the 
trays.  Over  this  heaped-up  ordure  the  Silk- 
worms swarm.  How  is  it  that  they  do  not 
acquire  the  poisonous  properties  of  their  own 
excrement  ? 

175 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

I  see  two  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  they 
are  hairless;  and  a  brusjilike  coat  may  well 
be  indispensable  to  the  collection  of  the  virus. 
In  the  second  place,  far  from  lying  in  the 
tilth,  they  live  above  the  soiled  stratum,  being 
largely  separated  from  it  by  the  bed  of  leaves, 
which  is  renewed  several  times  a  day.  Despite 
crowding,  the  population  of  a  tray  has  no- 
thing that  can  be  compared  with  the  ordinary 
habits  of  the  Processionary ;  and  so  it  remains 
harmless,  in  spite  of  its  stercoral  toxin. 

These  first  enquiries  lead  us  to  conclusions 
which  themselves  are  very  remarkable.  All 
caterpillars  excrete  an  urticating  matter, 
which  is  identical  throughout  the  series.  But, 
if  the  poison  is  to  manifest  itself  and  to  cause 
us  that  characteristic  itching,  it  is  indispensa- 
ble that  the  caterpillar  shall  dwell  in  a  com- 
munity, spending  long  periods  in  the  nest,  a 
silken  bag  laden  with  droppings.  These  fur- 
nish the  virus;  the  caterpillar's  hairs  collect 
it  and  transfer  it  to  us. 

The  time  has  come  to  tackle  the  problem 
from  another  point  of  view.  Is  this  for- 
midalle  matter  which  always  accompanies  the 
excretions  a  digestive  residuum?  Is  it  not 
rather  one  of  those  waste  substances  which 

176 


An  Insect  Virus 

the  organism  engenders  while  at  work,  waste 
substances  designated  by  the  general  appel- 
lation of  urinary  products? 

To  isolate  these  products,  to  collect  them 
separately,  would  scarcely  be  practicable,  if 
we  did  not  have  recourse  to  what  follows  on 
the  metamorphosis.  Every  Moth,  on  emer- 
ging from  her  chrysalis,  rejects  a  copious 
mixture  of  uric  acid  and  various  humours  of 
which  very  little  is  as  yet  known.  It  may 
be  compared  with  the  broken  plaster  of  a 
building  rebuilt  on  a  new  plan  and  represents 
the  by-products  of  the  mighty  labours  accom- 
plished in  the  transfigured  insect.  These  re- 
mains are  essentially  urinary  products,  with 
no  admixture  of  digested  foodstuffs. 

To  what  insect  shall  I  apply  for  this  re- 
siduum ?  Chance  does  many  things.  I  col- 
lect, from  the  old  elm-tree  in  the  garden, 
about  a  hundred  curious  caterpillars.  They 
have  seven  rows  of  prickles  of  an  amber  yel- 
low, a  sort  of  bush  with  four  or  five  branches. 
I  shall  learn  from  the  Butterfly  that  they  be- 
long to  the  Great  Tortoiseshell  (Vanessa 
polychloros,  LIN.). 

Reared  on  elm-leaves  under  a  wire-gauze 
cover,  my  caterpillars  undergo  their  trans- 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

formation  towards  the  end  of  May.  Their 
chrysalids  are  specked  with  brown  on  a 
whitish  ground  and  display  on  the  under  sur- 
face six  radiant  silvery  spots,  a  sort  of  decora- 
tive -tinsel,  like  so  many  mirrors.  Fixed  by 
the  tail  with  a  silken  pad,  they  hang  from  the 
top  of  the  dome,  swinging  at  the  least  move- 
ment and  emitting  vivid  flashes  of  light  from 
their  reflectors.  My  children  are  amazed  at 
this  living  chandelier.  It  is  a  treat  for  them 
when  I  allow  them  to  come  and  admire  it  in 
my  animal  studio. 

Another  surprise  awaits  them,  this  time  a 
tragic  one,  however.  A  fortnight  later,  the 
Butterflies  emerge.  I  have  placed  under  the 
cover  a  large  sheet  of  white  paper,  which  will 
receive  the  desired  products.  I  call  the  child- 
ren. What  do  they  see  on  the  paper? 

Large  spots  of  blood.  Under  their  very 
eyes,  from  up  there,  at  the  top  of  the  dome, 
a  butterfly  lets  fall  a  great  red  drop :  plop ! 
No  joy  for  the  children  to-day;  anxiety  rather, 
almost  fear. 

I  send  them  away,  saying  to  them : 

"Be  sure  and  remember,  kiddies,  what  you 
have  just  seen;  and,  if  ever  any  one  talks  to 
you  about  showers  of  blood,  don't  be  silly  and 
178 


An  Insect  Virus 

frightened.  A  pretty  Butterfly  is  the  cause 
of  those  blood-red  stains,  which  have  been 
known  to  terrify  country-folk.  The  moment 
she  is  born,  she  casts  out,  in  the  form  of  a 
red  liquid,  the  remains  of  her  old  caterpillar 
body,  a  body  remodelled  and  reborn  in  a 
beautiful  shape.  That  is  the  whole  secret." 

When  my  artless  visitors  have  departed,  I 
resume  my  examination  of  the  rain  of  blood 
falling  under  the  rover.  Still  clinging  to  the 
shell  of  its  chrysalis,  each  Tortoiseshell  ejects 
and  sheds  upon  the  paper  a  great  red  drop, 
which,  if  left  standing,  deposits  a  powdery 
pink  sediment,  composed  of  urates.  The 
liquid  is  now  a  deep  crimson. 

When  the  whole  thing  is  perfectly  dry,  I 
cut  out  of  the  spotted  paper  some  of  the 
richer  stains  and  steep  the  bits  in  ether.  The 
spots  on  the  paper  remain  as  red  as  at  the 
outset;  and  the  liquid  assumes  a  light  lemon 
tint.  When  reduced  by  evaporation  to  a  few 
drops,  this  liquid  provides  me  with  what  I 
require  to  soak  my  square  of  blotting-paper. 

What  shall  I  say  to  avoid  repeating  my- 
self? The  effects  of  the  new  caustic  are  pre- 
cisely the  same  as  those  which  I  experienced 
when  I  used  the  droppings  of  the  Proces- 

179 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

sionary.  The  same  itching,  the  same  burning, 
the  same  swelling  with  the  flesh  throbbing 
and  inflamed,  the  same  serous  exudation,  the 
same  peeling  of  the  skin,  the  same  persistent 
redness,  which  lingers  for  three  or  four 
months,  long  after  the  ulceration  itself  has 
disappeared. 

Without  being  very  painful,  the  sore  is  so 
irksome  and  above  all  looks  so  ugly  that  1 
swear  never  to  let  myself  in  for  it  again. 
Henceforth,  without  waiting  for  the  thing  to 
eat  into  my  flesh,  I  shall  remove  the  cater- 
pillar plaster  as  soon  as  I  feel  a  conclusive 
itching. 

In  the  course  of  these  painful  experiences, 
friends  upbraid  me  with  not  having  recourse 
to  the  assistance  of  some  animal,  such  as  the 
Guinea-pig,  that  stock  victim  of  the  physiolo- 
gists. I  take  no  note  of  their  reproaches. 
The  animal  is  a  stoic.  It  says  nothing  of  its 
sufferings.  If,  the  torture  being  a  little  too 
intense,  it  complains,  I  am  in  no  position  to 
interpret  its  cries  exactly  or  to  attribute  them 
to  a  definite  impression. 

The  Guinea-pig  will  not  say: 

"It  smarts,  it  itches,  it  burns." 

He  will  simply  say: 
180 


An  Insect  Virus 

"That  hurts." 

As  I  want  to  know  the  details  of  the  sensa- 
tions experienced,  the  best  thing  is  to  resort 
to  my  own  skin,  the  only  witness  on  whose  evi- 
dence I  can  rely  implicitly. 

At  the  risk  of  provoking  a  smile,  I  will 
venture  on  another  confession.  As  I  begin 
to  see  into  the  matter  more  clearly,  I  hesitate 
to  torture  or  destroy  a  single  creature  in  God's 
great  community.  The  life  of  the  least  of 
these  is  a  thing  to  be  respected.  We  can 
take  it  away,  but  we  cannot  give  it.  Peace 
to  those  innocents,  so  little  interested  in  our 
investigations!  What  does  our  restless 
curiosity  matter  to  their  calm  and  sacred 
ignorance?  If  we  wish  to  know,  let 
us  pay  the  price  ourselves  as  far  as 
possible.  The  acquisition  of  an  idea 
is  well  worth  the  sacrifice  of  a  bit  of 
skin. 

The  Elm  Tortoiseshell,  with  her  rain  of 
blood,  may  leave  us  to  a  certain  extent  in 
doubt.  Might  not  this  strange  red  substance, 
with  its  unusual  appearance,  contain  a  poison 
which  is  likewise  exceptional?  I  address  my- 
self therefore  to  the  Mulberry  Bombyx,  to 
the  Pine  Bombyx  and  to  the  Great  Peacock. 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

I   collect  the  uric  excretions  ejected  by  the 
newly  hatched  Moths. 

This  time,  the  liquid  is  whitish,  sullied  here 
and  there  with  uncertain  tints.  There  is  no 
blood-red  colouration ;  but  the  result  is  the 
same.  The  virulent  energy  manifests  itself  in 
the  most  definite  manner.  Therefore  the  Pn> 
cessionary's  virus  exists  equally  in  all  cater- 
jTHTars,  in  all  Butterflies  and  Moths  emerging 
frornthe  chrysalis;  and  this  virus'Tr'aTy^ 
product  of  the  organism,  a  urinary  product. 

The  curiosity  ot  our  minds  Is  Insatiable. 
The  moment  a  reply  is  obtained,  a  fresh  quest- 
ion arises.  Why  should  the  Lepidoptera 
alone  be  endowed  in  this  manner?  The  or- 
ganic labours  accomplished  within  them  can- 
not differ  greatly,  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
materials,  from  those  presiding  over  the 
maintenance  of  life  in  other  insects.  There- 
fore these  others  also  elaborate  a  by-product 
which  has  stinging  powers.  This  can  be  veri- 
fied— and  that  forthwith — with  the  elements 
at  my  disposal. 

The  first  reply  is  furnished  by  Cetonia 
floricola,  of  which  Beetle  I  collect  half  a 
dozen  chrysalids  from  a  heap  of  leaves  half- 
converted  into  mould.  A  box  receives  my 


An  Insect  Virus 

find,  laid  on  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  on  which 
the  urinary  fluid  of  the  perfect  insect  will  fall 
as  soon  as  the  caskets  are  broken. 

The  weather  is  favourable  and  I  have  not 
long  to  wait.  The  thing  is  done:  the  mat- 
ter rejected  is  white,  the  usual  colour  of  these 
residua,  in  the  great  majority  of  insects,  at  the 
moment  of  the  metamorphosis.  Though  by 
no  means  abundant,  it  nevertheless  provokes 
on  my  fore-arm  a  violent  itching,  together 
with  mortification  of  the  skin,  which  comes 
off  in  flakes.  The  reason  why  it  does  not  dis- 
play a  more  distinct  sore  is  that  I  judged  it 
prudent  to  end  the  experiment.  The  burning 
and  itching  tell  me  enough  as  to  the  results  of 
a  contact  unduly  prolonged. 

Now  to  the  Hymenoptera.  I  have  not  in 
my  possession,  I  regret  to  say,  any  of  those 
with  whom  my  rearing-chambers  used  for- 
merly to  provide  me,  whether  Honey-bee  or 
Hunting  Wasps.  I  have  only  a  Green  Saw- 
fly,  whose  larva  lives  in  numerous  families  on 
the  leaves  of  the  alder.  Reared  under  cover, 
this  larva  provides  me  with  enough  tiny  black 
droppings  to  fill  a  thimble.  That  is  sufficient : 
the  urtication  is  quite  definite. 

I    take   next   the    insects   with   incomplete 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

transformations.  My  recent  rearings  have 
given  me  quite  a  collection  of  excretions  ema- 
nating from  the  Orthoptera.  I  consult  those 
of  the  Vine  Ephippiger1  and  the  Great  Grey 
Locust.  Both  sting  to  a  degree  which  once 
more  makes  me  regret  my  lavish  hand. 

We  will  be  satisfied  with  this;  indeed  my 
arms  demand  as  much,  for,  tattooed  with  red 
squares,  they  refuse  to  make  room  for  fresh 
brandings.  The  examples  are  sufficiently 
varied  to  impose  the  following  conclusion :  the 

stT" 


virusisfound   in  a 

<otherinsects,   appar^t\Y^even'j?rj{fe  entire-" 
^"TTfTnary  "productm  herentin 


~"  The  clejlTctiorisoT'Tnsects,  especially  those 
evacuated  at  the  end  of  the  metamorphosis, 
contain  or  are  even  almost  entirely  composed 
of  urates.  Can  the  stinging  material  be  the 
inevitable  associate  of  uric  acid?  It  should 
then  form  part  of  the  excrement  of  the  bird 
and  the  reptile,  which  in  both  cases  is  very 
rich  in  urates.  Here  again  is  a  suspicion 
worthy  of  verification  by  experiment. 

For  the  moment   it  is   impossible   for  me 
to  question  the  reptile ;  it  is  easy,  on  the  other 

1A  species   of   Grasshopper. — Translator's  Note. 
184 


An  Insect  Virus 

hand,  to  interrogate  the  bird,  whose  reply  will 
suffice.  I  accept  what  is  offered  by  chance:  an 
insectivorous  bird,  the  Swallow,  and  a  grami- 
nivorous bird,  the  Goldfinch.  Well,  their  uri- 
nary dejections,  when  carefully  separated 
from  the  digestive  residua,  have  not  the 
slightest  stinging  effect.  The  virus  that  causes. 
itching  is  independent  therefore  oT  uric  acid. 
It  accompanies  it  in  the  insect  class,  without 
being  its  invariable  concomitant  every  else- 
where. 

A  last  step  remains  for  us  to  take,  namely, 
to  isolate  the  stinging  element  and  to  obtain 
it  in  quantities  permitting  of  precise  enquiries 
into  its  nature  and  properties.  It  seems  to 
me  that  medical  science  might  turn  to  account 
a  material  whose  energy  rivals  that  of  can- 
tharides,  if  it  does  not  exceed  it.  The  quest- 
ion appeals  to  me.  I  would  gladly  return  to 
my  beloved  chemistry;  but  I  should  want 
reagents,  apparatus,  a  laboratory,  a  whole 
costly  arsenal  of  which  I  must  not  dream,  af- 
flicted as  I  am  with  a  terrible  ailment:  impe- 
cuniosity,  the  searcher's  habitual  lot. 


185 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    PSYCHES:    THE    LAYING 

IN  THE  springtime,  old  walls  and  dusty 
roads  harbour  a  surprise  for  whoso  has 
eyes  to  see.  Tiny  faggots,  for  no  apparent 
reason,  set  themselves  in  motion  and  make 
their  way  along  by  sudden  jerks.  The  inani- 
mate comes  to  life,  the  immovable  stirs.  How 
does  this  come  about?  Look  closer  and  the 
motive  power  will  stand  revealed. 

Enclosed  within  the  moving  bundle  is  a 
fairly  well-developed  caterpillar,  prettily 
striped  in  black  and  white.  Seeking  for  food 
or  perhaps  for  a  spot  where  the  transforma- 
tion can  be  effected,  he  hurries  along  timidly, 
attired  in  a  queer  rig-out  of  twigs  from  which 
nothing  emerges  except  the  head  and  the  front 
part  of  the  body,  which  is  furnished  with  six 
short  legs.  At  the  least  alarm  he  goes  right 
in  and  does  not  budge  again.  This  is  the 
whole  secret  of  the  little  roaming  bundle  of 
sticks. 

The  faggot  caterpillar  belongs  to  the 
Psyche  group,  whose  name  conveys  an  allu- 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

sion  to  the  classic  Psyche,  symbolical  of  the 
coul.  We  must  not  allow  this  phrase  to 
carry  our  thoughts  to  loftier  heights  than  is 
fitting.  The  nomenclator,  with  his  rather 
circumscribed  view  of  the  world,  did  not 
trouble  about  the  soul  when  inventing  his  de- 
scriptive label.  He  simply  wanted  a  pretty 
name;  and  certainly  he  could  have  hit  on  no- 
thing better. 

To  protect  himself  from  the  weather,  our. 
chilly,  bare-skinned  Psyche  builds  himself  a 
portable  shelter,  a  travelling  cottage  which 
the  owner  never  leaves  until  he  becomes  a 
'JVIotb.  It  is  something  better  than  a  hut  on 
wheels  with  a  thatched  roof  to  it :  it  is  a 
hermit's  frock,  made  of  an  unusual  sort  of 
frieze.  In  the  valley  of  the  Danube  the 
peasant  wears  a  goatskin  cloak  fastened  with 
a  belt  of  rushes.  The  Psyche  dons  an  even 
more  rustic  apparel.  He  makes  himself  a  suit 
of  clothes  out  of  hop-poles.  It  is  true  that, 
beneath  this  rude  conglomeration,  which 
would  be  a  regular  hair-shirt  to  a  skin  as 
delicate  as  his,  he  puts  a  thick  lining  of  silk. 
The  Clythra  Beetle  garbs  himself  in  pottery; 
this  one  dresses  himself  in  a  faggot. 

In  April,  on  the  walls  of  my  chief  observa- 
187 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

tory,  that  famous  pebbly  acre  with  its  wealth 
of  insect  life,  I  find  the  Psyche  who  is  to  fur- 
nish me  with  my  most  circumstantial  and  de- 
tailed records.1  He  is  at  this  period  in  the 
torpor  of  the  approaching  metamorphosis.  As 
we  can  ask  him  nothing  else  for  the  moment, 
let  us  look  into  the  construction  and  composi- 
tion of  his  faggot. 

It  is  a  not  irregular  structure,  spindle- 
shaped  and  about  an  inch  and  a  half  long. 
The  pieces  that  compose  it  are  fixed  in  front 
and  free  at  the  back,  are  arranged  anyhow 
and  would  form  a  rather  ineffective  shelter 
against  the  sun  and  rain  if  the  recluse  had  no 
other  protection  than  his  thatched  roof. 

The  word  thatch  is  suggested  to  my  mind 
by  a  summary  inspection  of  what  I  see,  but  it 
is  not  an  exact  expression  in  this  case.  On  the 
contrary,  graminaceous  straws  are  rare,  to  the 
great  advantage  of  the  future  family,  which, 
as  we  shall  learn  presently,  would  find  nothing 
to  suit  them  in  jointed  planks.  What  pre- 
dominates is  remnants  of  very  small  stalks, 
light,  soft  and  rich  in  pith,  such  as  are  pos- 
sessed by  various  Chicoriacese.  I  recognize  in 

^Psyche    unicolor,    HUFN.  ;    P.    graminella,    SCHIFFER- 
MULLER. — Author's  Note. 

1 88 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

particular  the  floral  stems  of  the  mouse-ear 
hawkweed  and  the  Nimes  pterotheca.  Next 
come  bits  of  grass-leaves,  scaly  twigs  provided 
by  the  cypress-tree  and  all  sorts  of  little  sticks, 
coarse  materials  adopted  for  the  lack  of  any- 
thing better.  Lastly,  if  the  favourite  cylin- 
drical pieces  fall  short,  the  mantle  is  some- 
times finished  off  with  an  ample  flounced  tip- 
pet, that  is  to  say,  with  fragments  of  dry 
leaves  of  any  kind. 

Incomplete  as  it  is,  this  list  shows  us  that 
the  caterpillar  apart  from  his  preference  for 
pithy  morsels,  has  no  very  exclusive  tastes. 
He  employs  indifferently  anything  that  he 
comes  upon,  provided  that  it  be  light,  very 
dry,  softened  by  long  exposure  to  the  air  and 
of  suitable  dimensions.  All  his  finds,  if  they 
come  anywhere  near  his  estimates,  are  used 
just  as  they  are,  without  any  alterations  or 
sawing  to  reduce  them  to  the  proper  length. 
The  Psyche  does  not  trim  the  laths  that  go 
to  form  his  roof;  he  gathers  them  as  he  finds 
them.  His  work  is  limited  to  imbricating 
them  one  after  the  other  by  fixing  them  at  the 
fore-end. 

In  order  to  lend  itself  to  the  movements  of 
the  journeying  caterpillar  and  in  particular  to 
189 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

facilitate  the  action  of  the  head  and  legs 
when  a  new  piece  is  to  be  placed  in  position, 
the  front  part  of  the  sheath  requires  a  special 
structure.  Here  a  casing  of  beams  is  no 
longer  allowable,  for  their  length  and  stiff- 
ness would  hamper  the  artisan  and  even  make 
his  work  impossible;  what  is  essential  here 
is  a  flexible  neck,  able  to  bend  in  all  direc- 
tions. The  assemblage  of  stakes  does,  in 
fact,  end  suddenly  at  some  distance  from  the 
fore-part  and  is  there  replaced  by  a  collar 
in  which  the  silken  woof  is  merely  hardened 
with  very  tiny  ligneous  particles,  tending  to 
strengthen  the  material  without  impairing  its 
flexibility.  This  collar,  which  gives  free 
movement,  is  so  important  that  all  the  Psyches 
make  equal  use  of  it,  however  much  the  rest 
of  the  work  may  differ.  All  carry,  in  front 
of  the  faggot  of  sticks,  a  yielding  neck,  soft 
to  the  touch,  formed  inside  of  a  web  of  pure 
silk  and  velveted  outside  with  a  fine  sawdust 
which  the  caterpillar  obtains  by  crushing  with 
his  mandibles  any  sort  of  dry  straw. 

A  similar  velvet,  but  lustreless  and  faded, 
apparently  through  age,  finishes  the  sheath  at 
the  back,  in  the  form  of  a  rather  long,  bare 
appendix,  open  at  the  end. 
190 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

Let  us  now  remove  the  outside  of  the  straw 
envelope,  shredding  it  piecemeal.  The  demo- 
lition gives  us  a  varying  number  of  joists:  I 
have  counted  as  many  as  eighty  and  more. 
The  ruin  that  remains  is  a  cylindrical  sheath 
wherein  we  discover,  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  the  structure  which  we  perceived  at  the 
front  and  rear,  the  two  parts  which  are  natu- 
rally bare.  The  tissue  everywhere  is  of  very 
stout  silk,  which  resists  without  breaking 
when  pulled  by  the  fingers,  a  smooth  tissue, 
beautifully  white  inside,  drab  and  wrinkled 
outside,  where  it  bristles  with  encrusted  woody 
particles. 

There  will  be  an  opportunity  later  to  dis- 
cover by  what  means  the  caterpillar  makes 
himself  so  complicated  a  garment,  in  which 
are  laid  one  upon  the  other,  in  a  definite 
order,  first,  the  extremely  fine  satin  which  is 
in  direct  contact  with  the  skin ;  next,  the  mixed 
stuff,  a  sort  of  frieze  dusted  with  ligneous 
matter,  which  saves  the  silk  and  gives  con- 
sistency to  the  work;  lastly,  the  surtout  of 
overlapping  laths. 

While  retaining  this  general  threefold  ar- 
rangement, the  scabbard  offers  notable  varia- 
tions of  structural  detail  in  the  different 

HW 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

species.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  second 
Psyche,1  the  most  belated  of  the  three  which 
I  have  chanced  to  come  upon.  I  meet  him 
towards  the  end  of  June,  hurrying  across 
some  dusty  path  near  the  houses.  His  cases 
surpass  those  of  the  previous  species  both  in 
size  and  in  regularity  of  arrangement.  They 
form  a  thick  coverlet,  of  many  pieces,  in  which 
I  recognize  here  fragments  of  hollow  stalks, 
there  bits  of  fine  straw,  with  perhaps  straps 
formed  of  blades  of  grass.  In  front  there 
is  never  any  mantilla  of  dead  leaves,  a  trouble- 
some piece  of  finery  which,  without  being  in 
regular  use,  is  pretty  frequent  in  the  costume 
of  the  first-named  species.  At  the  back,  no 
long,  denuded  vestibule.  Save  for  the  indis- 
pensable collar  at  the  aperture,  all  the  rest 
is  cased  in  logs.  There  is  not  much  variety 
about  the  thing,  but,  when  all  is  said,  there 
is  a  certain  elegance  in  its  stern  faultlessness. 
The  smallest  in  size  and  simplest  in  dress 
is  the  third,2  who  is  very  common  at  the  end 
of  winter  on  the  walls,  as  well  as  in  the  fur- 
rows of  the  barks  of  gnarled  old  trees,  be  they 

'As  far  as  can  be  judged  from  the  case  only.  Psyche 
febretta,  BOYER  DE  FONSCOLOMBE. — Author's  Note. 

*Fumea  comitella  and  F.  inter me diella,  BRUAND.— Au- 
thor's Note. 

192 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

olive-trees,  holm-oaks,  elms  or  almost  any 
other.  His  case,  a  modest  little  bundle,  is 
hardly  more  than  two-fifths  of  an  inch  in 
length.  A  dozen  rotten  straws,  gleaned  at 
random  and  fixed  close  to  one  another  in  a 
parallel  direction,  represent,  with  the  silk 
sheath,  his  whole  outlay  on  dress.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  clothe  one's  self  more  eco- 
nomically. 

This  pigmy,  apparently  so  uninteresting, 
shall  supply  us  with  our  first  records  of  the 
curious  life-story  of  the  Psyches.  I  gather 
him  in  profusion  in  April  and  instal  him  in 
a  wire  bell-jar.  What  he  eats  I  know  not. 
My  ignorance  would  be  grievous  under  other 
conditions;  but  at  present  I  need  not  trouble 
about  provisions.  Taken  from  their  walls 
and  trees,  where  they  had  suspended  them- 
selves for  their  transformation,  most  of  my 
little  Psyches  are  in  the  chrysalis  state.  A 
few  of  them  are  still  active.  They  hasten  to 
clamber  to  the  top  of  the  trellis-work:  they 
fix  themselves  there  perpendicularly  by  means 
of  a  little  silk  cushion;  then  everything  is  still. 

June  comes  to  an  end;  and  the  male  Moths 
are  hatched,  leaving  the  chrysalid  wrapper 
half  caught  in  the  case,  which  remains  fixed 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

where  it  is  and  will  remain  there  indefinitely 
until  dismantled  by  the  weather.  The  emer- 
gence is  effected  through  the  hinder  end  of 
the  bundle  of  sticks,  the  only  way  by  which  it 
can  be  effected.  Having  permanently  closed 
the  top  opening,  the  real  door  of  the  house, 
by  fastening  it  to  the  support  which  he  has 
chosen,  the  caterpillar  therefore  has  turned 
the  other  way  round  and  undergone  his  trans- 
formation in  a  reversed  position,  wh;ch 
enables  the  adult  insect  to  emerge  through  the 
outlet  made  at  the  back,  the  only  one  now 
free. 

For  that  matter,  this  is  the  method  fol- 
lowed by  all  the  Psyches.  The  case  has  two 
apertures.  The  front  one,  which  is  more  regu- 
lar and  more  carefully  constructed,  is  at  the 
caterpillar's  service  so  long  as  larval  activity 
lasts.  It  is  closed  and  firmly  fastened  to  its 
support  at  the  time  of  the  nymphosis.  The 
hinder  one,  which  is  faulty  and  even  hidden 
by  the  sagging  of  the  sides,  is  at  the  Moth's 
service.  It  does  not  really  open  until  right 
at  the  end,  when  pushed  by  the  chrysalis  or 
the  adult  insect. 

In  their  modest  pearl-grey  dress,  with  their 
insignificant  wing-equipment,  hardly  exceed 
194 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

ing  that  of  a  Common  Fly,  our  little  Moths 
are  still  not  without  elegance.  They  have 
handsome  feathery  plumes  for  antennae;  their 
wings  are  edged  with  delicate  fringes.  They 
whirl  very  fussily  inside  the  bell-jar;  they  skim 
the  ground,  fluttering  their  wings;  they  crowd 
eagerly  around  certain  sheaths  which  nothing 
on  the  outside  distinguishes  from  the  others. 
They  alight  upon  them  and  sound  them  with 
their  plumes. 

This  feverish  agitation  marks  them  as 
lovers  in  search  of  their  brides.  This  one 
here,  that  one  there,  each  of  them  finds  his 
mate.  But  the  coy  one  does  not  leave  her 
home.  Things  happen  very  discreetly  through 
the  wicket  left  open  at  the  free  end  of  the 
case.  The  male  stands  on  the  threshold  of 
this  back-door  for  a  little  while;  and  then  it 
is  over:  the  wedding  is  finished.  There  is 
no  need  for  us  to  linger  over  these  nuptials 
in  which  the  parties  concerned  do  not  know, 
do  not  see  each  other. 

I  hasten  to  place  in  a  glass  tube  the  few 
cases  in  which  the  mysterious  events  have  hap- 
pened. Some  days  later,  the  recluse  comes 
out  of  the  sheath  and  shows  herself  in  all  her 
wretchedness.  Call  that  little  fright  a  Moth  ! 

i95 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

One  cannot  easily  get  used  to  the  idea  of 
such  poverty.  The  caterpillar  of  the  start  was 
no  humbler-looking.  There  are  no  wings, 
none  at  all ;  no  silky  fur  either.  At  the  tip 
of  the  abdomen,  a  round,  tufty  pad,  a  crown 
of  dirty-white  velvet;  on  each  segment,  in  the 
middle  of  the  back,  a  large  rectangular  dark 
patch:  these  are  the  sole  attempts  at  orna- 
ment. The  mother  Psyche  renounces  all  the 
beauty  which  her  name  of  Moth  promised. 

From  the  centre  of  the  hairy  coronet  a  long 
ovipositor  stands  out,  consisting  of  two  parts, 
one  stiff,  forming  the  base  of  the  implement, 
the  other  soft  and  flexible,  sheathed  in  the 
first  just  as  a  telescope  fits  in  its  tube.  The 
laying  mother  bends  herself  into  a  hook,  grips 
the  lower  end  of  her  case  with  her  six  feet 
and  drives  her  probe  into  the  back-window,  a 
window  which  serves  manifold  purposes,  al- 
lowing of  the  consummation  of  the  clande- 
stine marriage,  the  emergence  of  the  fertilized 
bride,  the  installation  of  the  eggs  and,  lastly, 
the  exodus  of  the  young  family. 

There,   at  the   free   end  of  her  case,   the 

mother  remains  for  a  long  time,  bowed  and 

motionless.     What  can  she  be  doing  in  this 

contemplative  attitude?     She  is  lodging  her 

196 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

eggs  in  the  house  which  she  has  just  left;  she 
is  bequeathing  the  maternal  cottage  to  her 
heirs.  Some  thirty  hours  pass  and  the  ovi- 
positor is  at  last  withdrawn.  The  laying  is 
finished. 

A  little  wadding,  supplied  by  the  coronet 
on  the  hind-quarters,  closes  the  door  and  al- 
lays the  dangers  of  invasion.  The  fond 
mother  makes  a  barricade  for  her  brood  of 
the  sole  ornament  which,  in  her  extreme  in- 
digence, she  possesses.  Better  still,  she  makes 
a  rampart  of  her  body.  Bracing  herself  con- 
vulsively on  the  threshold  of  her  home,  she 
dies  there,  dries  up  there,  devoted  to  her 
family  even  after  death.  It  needs  an  accident, 
a  breath  of  air,  to  make  her  fall  from  her 
post. 

Let  us  now  open  the  case.  It  contains  the 
chrysalid  wrapper,  intact  except  for  the  front 
breach  through  which  the  Psyche  emerged. 
The  male,  because  of  his  wings  and  his 
plumes,  very  cumbersome  articles  when  he  is 
about  to  make  his  way  through  the  narrow 
pass,  takes  advantage  of  his  chrysalis  state 
to  make  a  start  for  the  door  and  come  out 
half-way.  Then,  bursting  his  amber  tunic, 
the  delicate  Moth  finds  an  open  space,  where 
197 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

flight  is  possible,  right  in  front  of  him.  The 
mother,  unprovided  with  wings  and  plumes, 
is  not  compelled  to  observe  any  such  precau- 
tions. Her  cylindrical  form,  bare  and  differ- 
ing but  little  from  that  of  the  caterpillar, 
allows  her  to  crawl,  to  slip  into  the  narrow- 
passage  and  to  come  forth  without  obstacle. 
Her  cast  chrysalid  skin  is,  therefore,  left 
right  at  the  back  of  the  case,  well  covered  by 
the  thatched  roof. 

And  this  is  an  act  of  prudence  marked  by 
exquisite  tenderness.  The  eggs,  in  fact,  are 
packed  in  the  barrel,  in  the  parchmentlike 
wallet  formed  by  the  slough.  The  mother 
has  thrust  her  telescopic  ovipositor  to  the  bot- 
tom of  that  receptacle  and  has  methodically 
gone  on  laying  until  it  is  full.  Not  satisfied 
with  bequeathing  her  home  and  her  velvet 
coronet  to  her  offspring,  as  a  last  sacrifice  she 
leaves  them  her  skin. 

With  a  view  to  observing  at  my  ease  the 
events  which  are  soon  to  happen,  I  extract 
one  of  these  chrysalid  bags,  stuffed  with  eggs, 
from  its  faggot  and  place  it  by  itself,  beside 
its  case,  in  a  glass  tube.  I  have  not  long  to 
wait.  In  the  first  week  of  July,  I  find  myself 
all  of  a  sudden  in  possession  of  a  large  family. 
198 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

The  quickness  of  the  hatching  balked  my 
watchfulness.  The  new-born  caterpillars, 
about  forty  in  number,  have  already  had  time 
to  garb  themselves. 

They  wear  a  Persian  head-dress,  a  mage's 
tiara  in  dazzling  white  plush.  Or,  to  aban- 
don high-flown  language,  let  us  say  a  cotton 
night-cap  without  a  tassel;  only  the  cap  does 
not  stand  up  from  the  head:  it  covers  the 
hind-quarters.  Great  animation  reigns  in  the 
tube,  which  is  a  spacious  residence  for  such 
vermin.  They  roam  about  gaily,  with  their 
caps  sticking  up  almost  perpendicular  to  the 
floor.  With  a  tiara  like  that  and  things  to 
eat,  life  must  be  sweet  indeed. 

But  what  do  they  eat?  I  try  a  little  of 
everything  that  grows  on  the  bare  stone  and 
the  gnarled  old  trees.  Nothing  is  welcomed. 
More  eager  to  dress  than  to  feed  themselves, 
the  Psyches  scorn  what  I  set  before  them. 
My  ignorance  as  an  insect-breeder  will  not 
matter,  provided  that  I  succeed  in  seeing  with 
what  materials  and  in  what  manner  the  first 
outlines  of  the  cap  are  woven. 

I  may  fairly  hope  to  achieve  this  ambition, 
as  the  chrysalid  bag  is  far  from  having  ex- 
hausted its  contents.  I  find  in  it,  teeming 
199 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

amid  the  rumpled  wrapper  of  the  eggs,  an 
additional  family  as  numerous  as  the  swarm 
that  is  already  out.  The  total  laying  must 
therefore  amount  to  five  or  six  dozen.  I  trans- 
fer to  another  receptacle  the  precocious  band 
which  is  already  dressed  and  keep  only  the 
naked  laggards  in  the  tube.  They  have 
bright  red  heads,  with  the  rest  of  their  bodies 
dirty  white;  and  they  measure  hardly  a 
twenty-fifth  of  an  inch  in  length. 

My  patience  is  not  long  put  to  the  test. 
Next  day,  little  by  little,  singly  or  in  groups, 
the  belated  grubs  quit  the  chrysalid  bag. 
They  come  out  without  breaking  the  frail  wal- 
let, through  the  front  breach  made  by  the 
liberation  of  the  mother.  Not  one  of  them 
utilizes  it  as  a  dress-material,  though  it  has 
the  delicacy  and  amber  colouring  of  an  onion- 
skin ;  nor  do  any  of  them  make  use  of  a  fine 
quilting  which  lines  the  inside  of  the  bag  and 
forms  an  exquisitely  soft  bed  for  the  eggs. 
This  down,  whose  origin  we  shall  have  to  in- 
vestigate presently,  ought,  one  would  say,  to 
make  an  excellent  blanket  for  these  chilly 
ones,  impatient  to  cover  themselves  up.  Not 
a  single  one  uses  it;  there  would  not  be 
enough  to  go  round. 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

All  go  straight  to  the  coarse  faggot,  which 
I  left  in  contact  with  the  wallet  that  was  the 
chrysalis.  Time  presses.  Before  making 
your  entrance  into  the  world  and  going 
agrazing,  you  must  first  be  clad.  All  there- 
fore, with  equal  fury,  attack  the  old  sheath 
and  hastily  dress  themselves  in  the  mother's 
cast  clothes.  Some  turn  their  attention  to  bits 
that  happen  to  be  open  lengthwise  and  scrape 
the  soft,  white  inner  layer;  others,  greatly 
daring,  penetrate  into  the  tunnel  of  a  hollow 
stalk  and  go  and  collect  their  cotton  goods 
in  the  dark.  At  such  times  the  materials  are 
first-class ;  and  the  garment  woven  is  of  a 
dazzling  white.  Others  bite  deep  into  the 
piece  which  they  select  and  make  themselves 
a  motley  garment,  in  which  dark-coloured 
particles  mar  the  snowy  whiteness  of  the  rest. 

The  tool  which  they  use  for  their  gleaning 
consists  of  the  mandibles,  shaped  like  wide 
shears  with  five  strong  teeth  apiece.  The  two 
planes  fit  into  each  other  and  form  an  im- 
plement capable  of  seizing  and  slicing  any 
fibre,  however  small.  Seen  under  the  micro- 
scope, it  is  a  wonderful  specimen  of  mechanic- 
al precision  and  power.  Were  the  Sheep 
similarly  equipped  in  proportion  to  her  size, 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

she  would  browse  upon  the  bottom  of  the 
trees  instead  of  cropping  the  grass. 

A  very  instructive  workshop  is  that  of  the 
Psyche-vermin  toiling  to  make  themselves  a 
cotton  night-cap.  There  are  numbers  of 
things  to  remark  in  both  the  finish  of  the 
work  and  the  ingenuity  of  the  methods  em- 
ployed. To  avoid  repeating  ourselves,  we 
will  say  nothing  about  these  yet,  but  wait  for 
a  little  and  return  to  the  subject  when  setting 
forth  the  talents  of  a  second  Psyche,  of  larger 
stature  and  easier  to  observe.  The  two 
weavers  observe  exactly  the  same  procedure. 

Nevertheless  let  us  take  a  glance  at  the 
bottom  of  the  egg-cup,  a  general  workyard  in 
which  I  instal  my  dwarfs  as  the  cases  turn 
them  out.  There  are  some  hundreds  of  them, 
with  the  sheaths  from  which  they  came  and 
an  assortment  of  clipped  stalks,  chosen  from 
among  the  driest  and  richest  in  pith.  What 
a  whirl!  What  bewildering  animation! 

In  order  to  see  man,  Micnomegas  cut  him- 
self a  lens  out  of  a  diamond  of  his  necklace; 
he  held  his  breath  lest  the  storm  from  his 
nostrils  should  blow  the  mite  away.  I  in 
my  turn  will  be  the  good  giant,  newly  arri- 
ving from  Sirius;  I  screw  a  magnifying-glass 


The  Psyches;  the  Laying 

into  my  eye  and  am  careful  not  to  breathe  for 
fear  of  overturning  and  sweeping  out  of  ex- 
istence my  cotton-workers.  If  I  need  one  of 
them,  to  focus  him  under  a  stronger  glass,  I 
lime  him  as  it  were,  seizing  him  with  the  fine 
point  of  a  needle  which  I  have  passed  over 
my  lips.  Taken  away  from  his  work,  the 
tiny  caterpillar  struggles  at  the  end  of  the 
needle,  shrivels  up,  makes  himself,  small  as  he 
is,  still  smaller;  he  strives  to  withdraw  as  far 
as  possible  into  his  clothing,  which  as  yet  is 
incomplete,  the  merest  flannel  vest  or  even  a 
narrow  scarf,  covering  nothing  but  the  top  of 
his  shoulders.  Let  us  leave  him  to  complete 
his  coat.  I  give  a  puff;  and  the  creature  is 
swallowed  up  in  the  crater  of  the  egg-cup. 

And  this  speck  is  alive.  It  is  industrious; 
it  is  versed  in  the  art  of  blanket-making.  An 
orphan,  born  that  moment,  it  knows  how  to 
cut  itself  out  of  its  dead  mother's  old  clothes 
the  wherewithal  to  clothe  itself  in  its  turn. 
Soon  it  will  become  a  carpenter,  an  assembler 
of  timber,  to  make  a  defensive  covering  for 
its  delicate  fabric.  What  must  instinct  be,  to 
be  capable  of  awakening  such  industries  in  an 
atom! 

It  is  at  the  end  of  June  also  that  I  obtain, 
203 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

in  his  adult  shape,  the  Psyche  whose  scab- 
bard is  continued  underneath  by  a  long,  naked 
vestibule.  Most  of  the  cases  are  fastened  by 
a  silk  pad  to  the  trelliswork  of  the  cage  and 
hang  vertically,  like  stalactites.  Some  few  of 
them  have  never  left  the  ground.  Half  im- 
mersed in  the  sand,  they  stand  erect,  with  their 
rear  in  the  air  and  their  fore-part  buried  and 
firmly  anchored  to  the  side  of  the  pan  by 
means  of  a  silky  paste. 

This  inverted  position  excludes  any  idea  of 
weight  as  a  guide  in  the  caterpillar's  prepara- 
tions. An  adept  at  turning  round  in  his 
cabin,  he  is  careful,  before  he  sinks  into  the 
immobility  of  pupadom,  to  turn  his  head  now 
upwards,  now  downwards,  towards  the  open- 
ing, so  that  the  adult  insect,  which  is  much 
less  free  than  the  larva  in  its  movements,  may 
reach  the  outside  without  obstacle. 

Moreover,  it  is  the  pupa  itself,  the  un- 
bending chrysalis,  incapable  of  turning  and 
obliged  to  move  all  in  one  piece,  which,  stub- 
bornly crawling,  carries  the  male  to  the 
threshold  of  the  case.  It  emerges  half  way 
at  the  end  of  the  uncovered  silky  vestibule 
and  there  breaks,  obstructing  the  opening 
with  its  slough  as  it  does  so.  For  a  time  the 
204 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

Moth  stands  still  on  the  roof  of  the  cottage, 
allowing  his  humours  to  evaporate,  his  wings 
to  spread  and  gather  strength;  then  at  last 
the  gallant  takes  flight,  in  search  of  her 
for  whose  sake  he  has  made  himself  so  spruce. 

He  wears  a  costume  of  deepest  black,  all 
except  the  edges  of  the  wings,  which,  having 
no  scales,  remain  diaphanous.  His  antennae, 
likewise  black,  are  wide  and  graceful  plumes. 
Were  they  on  a  larger  scale,  they  would 
throw  the  feathered  beauty  of  the  Marabou 
and  Ostrich  into  the  shade.  The  bravely  be- 
plumed  one  visits  case  after  case  in  his  tor- 
tuous flight,  prying  into  the  secrets  of  those 
alcoves.  If  things  go  as  he  wishes,  he  settles, 
with  a  quick  flutter  of  his  wings,  on  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  denuded  vestibule.  Comes  the 
wedding,  as  discreet  as  that  of  the  smaller 
Psyche.  Here  is  yet  another  who  does  not 
see  or  at  most  catches  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
her  for  whose  sake  he  has  donned  Marabou- 
feathers  and  a  black-velvet  cloak. 

The  recluse  on  her  side  is  equally  impa- 
tient. The  lovers  are  short-lived;  they  die 
in  my  cages  within  three  or  four  days,  so 
that,  for  long  intervals,  until  the  hatching  of 
some  late-comer,  the  female  population  is 
205 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

short  of  suitors.  So,  when  the  morning  sun, 
already  hot,  strikes  the  cage,  a  very  singular 
spectacle  is  repeated  many  times  before  my 
eyes.  The  entrance  to  the  vestibule  swells 
imperceptibly,  opens  and  emits  a  mass  of  in- 
finitely delicate  down.  A  Spider's  web, 
carded  and  made  into  wadding,  would  give 
nothing  of  such  gossamer  fineness.  It  is  a 
vaporous  cloud.  Then,  from  out  of  this  in- 
comparable eiderdown,  appear  the  head  and 
fore-part  of  a  very  different  sort  of  caterpil- 
lar from  the  original  collector  of  straws. 

It  is  the  mistress  of  the  house,  the  mar- 
riageable Moth,  who.  feeling  her  hour  about 
to  come  and  failing  to  receive  the  expected 
visit,  herself  makes  the  advances  and  goes,  as 
far  as  she  can,  to  meet  her  plumed  swain. 
He  does  not  come  hastening  up  and  for  good 
reason:  there  is  not  a  male  left  in  the  esta- 
blishment. For  two  or  three  hours  the  poor 
forsaken  one  leans,  without  moving,  from  her 
window.  Then,  tired  of  waiting,  very  gently 
she  goes  indoors  again,  backwards,  and  re- 
turns to  her  cell. 

Next  day,  the  day  after  and  later  still,  as 
long  as  her  strength  permits,  she  reappears 
on  her  balcony,  always  in  the  morning,  in  the 
206 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

soft  rays  of  a  warm  sun  and  always  on  a  sofa 
of  that  incomparable  down,  which  disperses 
and  turns  to  vapour  if  I  merely  fan  it  with 
my  hand.  Again  no  one  comes,  For  the  last 
time  the  disappointed  Moth  goes  back  to  her 
boudoir,  never  to  leave  it  again.  She  dies 
in  it,  dries  up,  a  useless  thing.  I  hold  my  bell- 
jars  responsible  for  this  crime  against  mother- 
hood. In  the  open  fields,  without  a  doubt, 
sooner  or  later  wooers  would  have  appeared, 
coming  from  the  four  winds. 

The  said  bell-jars  have  an  even  more  piti- 
ful catastrophe  on  their  conscience.  Some- 
times, leaning  too  far  from  her  window,  mis- 
calculating the  balance  between  the  front  of 
the  body,  which  is  at  liberty,  and  the  back, 
which  remains  sheathed  in  its  case,  the  Moth 
allows  herself  to  drop  to  the  ground.  It  is 
all  up  now  with  the  fallen  one  and  her  lineage. 
Still,  there  is  one  good  thing  about  it.  Acci- 
dents such  as  this  lay  bare  the  mother  Psyche, 
without  our  having  to  break  into  her  house. 

What  a  miserable  creature  she  is,  a  great 
deal  uglier  than  the  original  caterpillar! 
Here  transfiguration  spells  disfigurement, 
progress  means  retrogression.  What  we  have 
before  our  eyes  is  a  wrinkled  satchel,  an 
207 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

earthy-yellow  sausage;  and  this  horror,  worse 
than  a  maggot,  is  a  Moth  in  the  full  bloom 
of  life,  a  genuine  adult  Moth.  She  is  the 
betrothed  of  the  elegant  black  Bombyx,  all 
plumed  with  Marabou-feathers,  and  repre- 
sents to  him  the  last  word  in  beauty.  As  the 
proverb  says,  beauty  lies  in  lovers'  eyes :  a 
profound  truth  which  the  Psyche  confirms  in 
striking  fashion. 

Let  us  describe  the  ugly  little  sausage.  A 
very  small  head,  a  pp.ltry  globule,  disap- 
pearing almost  entirely  in  the  folds  of  the  first 
segment.  What  need  is  there  of  cranium  and 
brains  for  a  germ-bag !  And  so  the  tiny  crea- 
ture almost  does  without  them,  reduces  them 
to  the  simplest  expression.  Nevertheless, 
there  are  two  black  ocular  specks.  Do  these 
vestigial  eyes  see  their  way  about?  Not  very 
clearly,  we  may  be  sure.  The  pleasures  of 
light  must  be  very  small  for  this  stay-at-home, 
who  appears  at  her  window  only  on  rare 
occasions,  when  the  male  Moth  is  late  in 
arriving. 

The  legs  are  well-shaped,  but  so  short  and 
weak  that  they  are  of  no  use  at  all  for  loco- 
motion. The  whole  body  is  a  pale  yellow, 
semitransparent  in  front,  opaque  and  stuffed 
208 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

with  eggs  behind.  Underneath  the  first  seg~ 
ments  is  a  sort  of  neck-band,  that  is  to  say, 
a  dark  stain,  the  vestige  of  a  crop  showing 
through  the  skin.  A  pad  of  short  down  ends 
the  oviferous  part  at  the  back.  It  is  all  that 
remains  of  a  fleece,  of  a  thin  velvet  which 
the  insect  rubs  off  as  it  moves  backwards  and 
forwards  in  its  narrow  lodging.  This  forms 
the  flaky  mass  which  whitens  the  trysting- 
window  at  the  wedding-time  and  also  lines 
the  inside  of  the  sheath  with  down.  In 
short,  the  creature  is  little  more  than  a  bag 
swollen  with  eggs  for  the  best  part  of  its 
length.  I  know  nothing  lower  in  the  scale  of 
wretchedness. 

The  germ-bag  moves,  but  not,  of  course, 
with  those  vestiges  of  legs  which  form  too 
short  and  feeble  supports;  it  gets  about  in  a 
way  that  allows  it  to  progress  on  its  back, 
belly  or  side  indifferently.  A  groove  is  hol- 
lowed out  at  the  hinder  end  of  the  bag,  a 
deep,  dividing  groove  which  cuts  the  insect 
into  two.  It  runs  to  the  front  part/spreading 
like  a  wave,  and  gently  and  slowly  reaches 
the  head.  This  undulation  constitutes  a  step. 
When  it  is  done,  the  animal  has  advanced 
about  a  twenty-fifth  part  of  an  inch. 

20Q 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

To  go  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  a 
box  two  inches  long  and  filled  with  fine  sand, 
the  living  sausage  takes  nearly  an  hour.  It 
is  by  crawling  like  this  that  it  moves  about 
in  its  case,  when  it  comes  to  the  threshold 
to  meet  its  visitor  and  goes  in  again. 

For  three  or  four  days,  exposed  to  the 
roughness  of  the  soil,  the  oviferous  bag  leads 
a  wretched  life,  creeping  about  at  random, 
or,  more  often,  standing  still.  No  Moth  pays 
attention  to  the  poor  thing,  who  possesses  no 
attractions  outside  her  home;  the  lovers  pass 
by  with  an  indifferent  air.  This  coolness  is 
logical  enough.  Why  should  she  become  a 
mother,  if  her  family  is  to  be  abandoned  to 
the  inclemencies  of  the  public  way?  And  so, 
after  falling  by  accident  from  her  case,  which 
would  have  been  the  cradle  of  the  youngsters, 
the  wanderer  withers  in  a  few  days  and  dies 
childless. 

The  fertilized  ones — and  these  are  the 
more  numerous — the  prudent  ones  who  have 
saved  themselves  from  a  fall  by  being  less 
lavish  with  their  appearances  at  the  window, 
reenter  the  sheath  and  do  not  show  them- 
selves again  once  the  Moth's  visit  to  the 
threshold  is  over.  Let  us  wait  a  fortnight 

210 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

and  then  open  the  case  lengthwise  with  out 
scissors.  At  the  end,  in  the  widest  part,  oppo- 
site the  vestibule,  is  the  slough  of  the  chrysa- 
lis, a  long,  fragile,  amber-coloured  sack,  open 
at  the  end  that  contains  the  head,  the  end 
facing  the  exit-passage.  In  this  sack,  which 
she  fills  like  a  mould,  lies  the  mother,  the 
egg-bladder,  now  giving  no  sign  of  life. 

From  this  amber  sheath,  which  presents  all 
the  usual  characteristics  of  a  chrysalis,  the 
adult  Psyche  emerged,  in  the  guise  of  a 
shapeless  Moth,  looking  like  a  big  maggot: 
at  the  present  time,  she  has  slipped  back  into 
her  old  jacket,  moulding  herself  into  it  in 
such  a  way  that  it  becomes  difficult  to 
separate  the  container  from  the  contents. 
One  would  take  the  whole  thing  for  a  single 
body. 

It  seems  very  likely  that  this  cast  skin, 
which  occupies  the  best  place  in  the  home, 
formed  the  Psyche's  refuge  when,  weary  of 
waiting  on  the  threshold  of  her  hall,  she  re- 
tired to  the  back  room.  She  has  therefore 
gone  in  and  out  repeatedly.  This  constant 
going  and  coming,  this  continual  rubbing 
against  the  sides  of  a  narrow  corridor,  just 
wide  enough  for  her  to  pass  through,  ended 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

by  stripping  her  of  her  down.  She  had  a 
fleece  to  start  with,  a  very  light  and  scanty 
fleece,  it  is  true,  but  still  a  vestige  of  the  cos- 
tume which  Moths  are  wont  to  wear.  This 
fluff  she  has  lost.  What  has  she  done  with 
it? 

The  Eider  robs  herself  of  her  down  to 
make  a  luxurious  bed  for  her  brood;  the  newr- 
born  Rabbits  lie  on  a  mattress  which  their 
mother  cards  for  them  with  the  softest  part 
of  her  fur,  shorn  from  the  belly  and  neck, 
wherever  the  shears  of  her  front  teeth  can 
reach  it.  This  fond  tenderness  is  shared  by 
the  Psyche,  as  you  will  see. 

In  front  of  the  chrysalid  bag  is  an  abund- 
ant mass  of  extra-fine  wadding,  similar  to 
that  of  which  a  few  flocks  used  to  fall  out- 
side on  the  occasions  when  the  recluse  went 
to  her  window.  Is  it  silk?  Is  it  spun  mus- 
lin? No;  but  it  is  something  of  incom- 
parable delicacy.  The  microscope  recognizes 
it  as  the  scaly  dust,  the  impalpable  down  in 
which  every  Moth  is  clad.  To  give  a  snug 
shelter  to  the  little  caterpillars  who  will  soon 
be  swarming  in  the  case,  to  provide  them  with 
a  refuge  in  which  they  can  play  about  and 
gather  strength  before  entering  the  wide 


The  Psyches:  the  Laying 

world,  the  Psyche  has  stripped  herself  of  her 
fur  like  the  mother  Rabbit. 

This  denudation  may  be  a  mere  mechanical 
result,  an  unintentional  effect  of  repeated  rub- 
bing against  the  low-roofed  walls;  but  there 
is  nothing  to  tell  us  so.  Maternity  has  its 
foresight,  even  among  the  humblest.  1 
therefore  picture  the  hairy  Moth  twisting 
about,  going  to  and  fro  in  the  narrow  pass- 
age in  order  to  get  rid  of  the  fleece  and 
prepare  bedding  for  her  offspring.  It  is  even 
possible  that  she  manages  to  use  her  lips,  that 
vestige  of  a  mouth,  in  order  to  pull  out  the 
down  that  refuses  to  come  away  of  itself. 

No  matter  what  the  method  of  shearing 
may  be,  a  mound  of  scales  and  hairs  fills  up 
the  case  in  front  of  the  chrysalid  bag.  For 
the  moment,  it  is  a  barricade  preventing  access 
to  the  house,  which  is  op~n  at  the  hinder  end; 
soon,  it  will  be  a  downy  couch  on  which  the 
little  caterpillars  will  rest  for  a  while  after 
leaving  the  egg.  Here,  warmly  ensconced  in  a 
rug  of  extreme  softness,  they  call  a  halt  as  a 
preparation  for  the  emergence  and  the  work 
that  follows  it. 

Not  that  silk  is  lacking :  on  the  contrary, 
it  abounds.  The  caterpillar  lavished  it  du- 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

ring  his  time  as  a  spinner  and  a  picker-up  of 
straws.  The  whole  interior  of  the  case  is 
padded  with  thick  white  satin.  But  how 
greatly  preferable  to  this  too-compact  and 
luxurious  upholstery  is  the  delightful  eider- 
down bedding  of  the  new-born  youngsters ! 

We  know  the  preparations  made  for  the 
coming  family.  Now,  where  are  the  eggs? 
At  what  spot  are  they  laid?  The  smallest 
of  my  three  Psyches,  who  is  less  misshapen 
than  the  others  and  freer  in  her  movements, 
leaves  her  case  altogether.  She  possesses  a 
long  ovipositor  and  inserts  it,  through  the 
exit-hole,  right  into  the  chrysalid  slough, 
which  is  left  where  it  was  in  the  form  of  a 
bag.  This  slough  receives  the  laying.  When 
the  operation  is  finished  and  the  bag  of  eggs 
is  full,  the  mother  dies  outside,  hanging  on  to 
the  case. 

The  two  other  Psyches,  who  do  not  carry 
telescopic  ovipositors  and  whose  only  method 
of  changing  their  position  is  a  dubious  sort 
of  crawling,  have  more  singular  customs  to 
show  us.  One  might  quote  with  regard  to 
them  what  used  to  be  said  of  the  Roman 
matrons,  those  model  mothers: 

"Domi  mansit,  lanam  fecit." 


The  Psycher:  the  Laying 

Yes,  lanam  fecit.  The  Psyche  does  not 
really  work  the  wool  on  the  distaff;  but  at 
least  she  bequeathes  to  her  sons  her  own 
fleece  converted  into  a  heap  of  wadding.  Yes, 
domi  mansit.  She  never  leaves  her  house, 
not  even  for  her  wedding,  not  even  for  the 
purpose  of  laying  her  eggs. 

We  have  seen  how,  after  receiving  the  visit 
of  the  male,  the  shapeless  Moth,  that  un- 
couth sausage,  retreats  to  the  back  of  her 
case  and  withdraws  into  her  chrysalid  slough, 
which  she  fills  exactly,  just  as  though  she  had 
never  left  it.  The  eggs  are  in  their  place  then 
and  there;  they  occupy  the  regulation  sack 
favoured  by  the  various  Psyches.  Of  what 
use  would  a  laying  be  now?  Strictly  speak- 
ing, there  is  none,  in  fact;  that  is  to  say,  tht 
eggs  do  not  leave  the  mother's  womb.  The 
living  pouch  which  has  engendered  them 
keeps  them  within  itself. 

Soon  this  bag  loses  its  moisture  by  evapo- 
ration; it  dries  up  and  at  the  same  time  re- 
mains sticking  to  the  chrysalid  wrapper,  that 
firm  support.  Let  us  open  the  thing.  What 
does  the  magnify  ing- glass  show  us?  A  few 
trachean  threads,  lean  bundles  of  muscles, 
nervous  ramifications,  in  short,  the  relics  of 
215 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

a  form  of  vitality  reduced  to  its  simplest  ex- 
pression. Taken  all  around,  very  nearly  no- 
thing. The  rest  of  the  contents  is  a  mass  of 
eggs,  an  agglomeration  of  germs  numbering 
close  upon  three  hundred.  In  a  word,  the 
insect  is  one  enormous  ovary,  assisted  by  just 
so  much  as  enables  it  to  perform  its  functions. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    PSYCHES:    THE    CASES 

THE  hatching  of  the  eggs  takes  place  in 
the  first  fortnight  of  July.  The  little 
grubs  measure  about  one  twenty-fifth  of  an 
inch.  Their  head  and  the  upper  part  of  the 
first  thoracic  segment  are  a  glossy  black,  the 
next  two  segments  brownish  and  the  rest  of 
the  body  a  pale  amber.  Sharp,  lively  little 
creatures,  who  run  about  with  short,  quick 
steps,  they  swarm  all  over  the  spongy,  hairy 
tissue  resulting  from  the  cast-off  clothing  of 
the  eggs. 

The  books  tell  me  that  the  little  Psyches 
begin  by  eating  up  their  mother:  a  loathsome 
banquet  for  which  the  said  books  must  ac- 
cept responsibility.  I  see  nothing  of  the  sort; 
and  I  do  not  even  understand  how  the  idea 
arose.  The  mother  bequeaths  to  her  sons  her 
case,  whose  straws  are  searched  for  wadding, 
the  material  of  the  first  coat;  out  of  her  chry- 
salid  slough  and  her  skin  she  makes  them  a 
two-fold  shelter  for  the  hatching-time;  with 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

her  down  she  prepares  a  defensive  barricade 
for  them  and  a  place  wherein  to  wait  before 
emerging.  Thus  all  is  given,  all  spent  with 
a  view  to  the  future.  Save  for  some  thin,  dry 
strips  which  my  lens  can  only  with  difficulty 
distinguish,  there  is  nothing  left  that  could 
provide  a  cannibal  feast  for  so  numerous  a 
family. 

No,  my  little  Psyches,  you  do  not  eat  your 
mother.  In  vain  do  I  watch  you :  never, 
either  to  clothe  or  to  feed  himself,  does  any 
one  of  you  lay  a  tooth  upon  the  remains  of 
the  deceased.  The  maternal  skin  is  left  un- 
touched, as  are  those  other  insignificant  relics, 
the  layer  of  muscular  tissue  and  the  network 
of  air-ducts.  The  sack  left  behind  by  the 
chrysalis  also  remains  intact. 

The  time  comes  to  quit  the  natal  wallet. 
An  outlet  has  been  contrived  long  beforehand, 
saving  the  youngsters  from  committing  any 
act  of  violence  against  what  was  once  their 
mother.  There  is  no  sacrilegious  cutting  to 
be  done  with  the  shears;  the  door  opens  of 
itself. 

When  she  was  a  wriggling  speck  of  sau- 
sage, the  mother's  front  segments  were  re- 
markably translucent,  forming  a  contrast  with 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

the  rest  of  the  body.  This  was  very  prob- 
ably a  sign  of  a  less  dense  and  less  tough 
texture  than  elsewhere.  The  sign  is  not  mis- 
leading. The  dry  gourd  to  which  the  mother 
is  now  reduced  has  for  a  neck  those  diapha- 
nous rings,  which,  as  they  withered,  became 
extremely  fragile.  Does  this  neck,  this  oper- 
culum  fall  of  its  own  accord,  or  is  it  pushed 
off  by  the  pigmies  impatient  to  get  away? 
I  do  not  know  for  certain.  This,  however, 
I  can  say,  that  blowing  on  it  is  enough  to 
make  it  drop  off. 

In  anticipation  therefore  of  the  emergence, 
an  exceedingly  easy  and  perhaps  even  spon- 
taneous method  of  decapitation  is  prepared  in 
the  mother's  lifetime.  To  manufacture  a 
delicate  neck  for  yourself  so  that  you  may  be 
easily  beheaded  at  the  proper  time  and  thus 
leave  the  way  free  to  the  youngsters  is  an 
act  of  devotion  in  which  the  most  unconscious 
maternal  affection  stands  sublimely  revealed. 
That  miserable  maggot,  that  sausage  Moth, 
scarce  able  to  crawl  and  yet  so  clear-sighted 
where  the  future  is  concerned,  staggers  the 
mind  of  any  one  who  knows  how  to  think. 

The  brood  emerge  from  the  natal  wallet 
through  the  window  just  opened  by  the  fall  of 
219 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

the  head.  The  chrysalid  sack,  the  second 
wrapper,  presents  no  obstacle;  it  has  remained 
open  since  the  adult  Psyche  left  it.  Next 
comes  the  mass  of  eiderdown,  the  heap  of 
fluff  of  which  the  mother  stripped  herself. 
Here  the  little  caterpillars  stop.  Much  more 
spaciously  and  comfortably  lodged  than  in  the 
bag  whence  they  have  come,  some  take  a  rest, 
others  bustle  about,  exercise  themselves  in 
walking.  All  pick  up  strength  in  preparation 
for  their  exodus  into  the  daylight. 

They  do  not  stay  long  amid  this  luxury. 
Gradually,  as  they  gain  vigour,  they  come 
out  and  spread  over  the  surface  of  the  case. 
Work  begins  at  once,  a  very  urgent  work, 
that  of  the  wardrobe.  The  first  mouthfuls 
will  come  afterwards,  when  we  are  dressed. 

Montaigne,  when  putting  on  the  cloak 
which  his  father  had  worn  before  him,  used 
a  touching  expression.  He  said: 

"I  dress  myself  in  my  father." 

The  young  Psyches  in  the  same  way  dress 
themselves  in  their  mother:  they  cover  them- 
selves with  the  clothes  left  behind  by  the  de- 
ceased, they  scrape  from  it  the  wherewithal 
to  make  themselves  a  cotton  frock.  The  ma- 
terial employed  is  the  pith  of  the  little  stalks, 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

especially  of  the  pieces  which,  split  length- 
wise, are  more  easily  stripped  of  their  con- 
tents. The  grub  first  finds  a  spot  to  suit  it. 
Having  done  so,  it  gleans,  it  planes  with  its 
mandibles.  Thus  a  superbly  white  wadding 
is  extracted  from  old  logs. 

The  manner  of  beginning  the  garment  is 
worth  noting.  The  tiny  creature  employs  as 
judicious  a  method  as  any  which  our  own  in- 
dustry could  hope  to  discover.  The  wadding 
is  collected  in  infinitesimal  pellets.  How  are 
these  little  particles  to  be  fixed  as  and  when 
they  are  detached  by  the  shears  of  the  man- 
dibles? The  manufacturer  needs  a  support, 
a  base;  and  this  support  cannot  be  obtained 
on  the  caterpillar's  own  body,  for  any  adher- 
ence would  be  seriously  embarrassing  and 
would  hamper  freedom  of  movement.  The 
difficulty  is  overcome  very  cleverly.  Scraps 
of  plush  are  gathered  and  by  degrees  fastened 
to  one  another  with  threads  of  silk.  This 
forms  a  sort  of  rectilinear  garland  in  which 
the  particles  collected  swing  from  a  common 
rope.  When  these  preparations  are  deemed 
sufficient,  the  little  creature  passes  the  garland 
round  its  waist,  at  about  the  third  segment  of 
rhe  thorax,  so  as  to  leave  its  six  legs  free; 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

then  it  ties  the  two  ends  with  a  bit  of  silk. 
The  result  is  a  girdle,  generally  incomplete, 
but  soon  completed  with  other  scraps  fast- 
ened to  the  silk  ribbon  that  carries  every- 
thing. 

This  girdle  is  the  base  of  the  work,  the 
support.  Henceforth,  to  lengthen  the  piece, 
to  enlarge  it  into  the  perfect  garment,  the 
grub  has  only  to  fix,  always  at  the  fore- 
edge,  with  the  aid  of  its  spinnerets,  now  at 
the  top,  now  at  the  bottom  or  side,  the  scraps 
of  pith  which  the  mandibles  never  cease  ex- 
tracting. Nothing  could  be  better  thought 
out  than  this  initial  garland  laid  out  flat  and 
then  buckled  like  a  belt  around  the  loins. 

Once  this  base  is  laid,  the  weaving-loom 
is  in  full  swing.  The  piece  woven  is  first  a 
tiny  string  around  the  waist ;  next,  by  the  ad- 
dition of  fresh  pellets,  always  at  the  fore- 
edge,  it  grows  into  a  scarf,  a  waistcoat,  a 
short  jacket  and  lastly  a  sack,  which  gradu- 
ally makes  its  way  backwards,  not  of  itself, 
but  through  the  action  of  the  weaver,  who 
slips  forward  in  the  part  of  the  case  already 
made.  In  a  few  hours,  the  garment  is  com- 
pleted. It  is  by  that  time  a  conical  hood,  a 
cloak  of  magnificent  whiteness  and  finish. 

222 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

We  now  know  all  about  it.  On  leaving 
the  maternal  hut,  without  searching,  without 
distant  expeditions  which  would  be  so  danger- 
ous at  that  age,  the  little  Psyche  finds  in  the 
tender  beams  of  the  roof  the  wherewithal  to 
clothe  himself.  He  is  spared  the  perils  of 
roaming  in  a  state  of  nudity.  When  he  leaves 
the  house,  he  will  be  quite  warm,  thanks  to 
the  mother,  who  takes  care  to  instal  her 
family  in  the  old  case  and  gives  it  choice  ma- 
terials to  work  with. 

If  the  grub-worm  were  to  drop  out  of  the 
hovel,  if  some  gust  of  wind  swept  him  to  a 
distance,  most  often  the  poor  mite  would  be 
lost.  Ligneous  straws,  rich  in  pith,  dry  and 
retted  to  a  turn,  are  not  to  be  found  every- 
where. It  would  mean  the  impossibility  of 
any  clothing  and,  in  that  dire  poverty-  an 
early  death.  But,  if  suitable  materials  are 
encountered,  equal  in  quality  to  those  be- 
queathed by  the  mother,-  how  is  it  that  the 
exile  is  unable  to  make  use  of  them?  Let  us 
look  into  this. 

I  segregate  a  few  new-born  grubs  in  a  glass 

tube  and  give  them  for  their  materials  some 

split  pieces  of  straw,  picked  from  among  the 

old  stalks  of  a  sort  of  dandelion,  Pterotheca 

223 


The  Life  of  tVe  Caterpillar 

ne "man sen sis.  Though  robbed  of  the  inherit- 
ance of  the  maternal  manor,  the  grubs  seem 
very  well  satisfied  with  my  bits.  Without  the 
least  hesitation,  they  scrape  out  of  them  a 
superb  white  pith  and  make  it  into  a  delicious 
cloak,  much  handsomer  than  that  which  they 
would  have  obtained  with  the  ruins  of  the 
native  house,  this  latter  cloak  being  always 
more  or  less  flawed  with  darker  materials, 
whose  colour  has  been  impaired  by  long  ex- 
posure to  the  air.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Nimes  dandelion,  a  relic  of  last  spring,  has  its 
central  part,  which  I  myself  lay  bare,  a  spot- 
less, white;  and  the  cotton  nightcap  achieves 
the  very  perfection  of  whiteness. 

I  obtain  an  even  better  result  with  rounds 
of  sorghum-pith  taken  from  the  kitchen- 
broom.  This  time,  the  work  has  glittering 
crystalline  points  and  looks  like  a  thing  built 
of  grains  of  sugar.  It  is  my  manufacturers' 
masterpiece. 

These  two  successes  authorize  me  to  vary 
the  raw  material  still  further.  In  the  absence 
of  new-born  caterpillars,  who  are  not  always 
at  my  disposal,  I  employ  grubs  which  I  have 
undressed,  that  is  to  say,  which  I  have  taken 
out  of  their  caps.  To  these  divested  ones  I 
224 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

give,  as  the  only  thing  to  work  upon,  a  strip  of 
paper  free  from  paste  and  easy  to  pick  to 
pieces,  in  short,  a  piece  of  blotting-paper. 

Here  again  there  is  no  hesitation.  The 
grubs  lustily  scrape  this  surface,  new  to  them 
though  it  be,  and  make  themselves  a  paper 
coat  of  it.  Cadet  Roussel,1  of  famous  me- 
mory, had  a  coat  of  similar  stuff,  but  much 
less  fine  and  silky.  My  paper-clad  charges 
are  so  well-pleased  with  their  materials  that 
they  scorn  their  native  case,  when  it  is  after- 
wards placed  at  their  disposal,  and  continue 
to  scrape  lint  from  the  industrial  product. 

Others  are  given  nothing  in  their  tube,  but 
are  able  to  get  at  the  cork  that  closes  the  glass 
dwelling-house.  This  is  enough.  The  un- 
draped  ones  hasten  to  scrape  the  cork,  to 
break  it  into  atoms  and  out  of  these  to  make 
themselves  a  granulated  frock,  as  faultlessly 
elegant  as  though  their  race  had  always  made 
use  of  this  material.  The  novelty  of  the  stuff, 
employed  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  has  made 
no  change  in  the  cut  of  the  coat. 

1  A  fictitious  character,  a  sort  of  dolt,  created  by  some 
wit  in  a  French  regiment  quartered  in  Brabant  about 
the  year  1792.  Cadet  Roussel's  entertaining  exploits 
were  perpetuated  in  a  contemporary  ballad. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

225 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

To  sum  up,  they  accept  any  vegetable  mat- 
ter that  is  dry,  light  and  not  too  resistant. 
Would  they  behave  likewise  towards  animal 
materials  and  especially  mineral  materials,  on 
condition  that  these  are  of  a  suitable  thinness? 
I  take  a  Great  Peacock's  w-ing,  left  over  from 
my  experiments  in  the  nuptial  telegraphy  of 
this  Moth,1  and  cut  from  it  a  strip  on  which 
I  place,  at  the  bottom  of  a  tube,  two  little 
caterpillars  stripped  of  their  clothing.  The 
two  prisoners  have  nothing  else  at  their  dis- 
posal. Any  drapery  that  they  want  must  be 
got  out  of  this  scaly  expanse. 

They  hesitate  for  a  long  time  in  the  pre- 
sence of  that  strange  carpet.  In  twenty-four 
hours'  time,  one  of  the  caterpillars  has  started 
no  work  and  seems  resolved  to  let  himself  die, 
naked  as  he  is.  The  other,  stouter-hearted, 
or  perhaps  less  injured  by  the  brutal  stripping- 
process,  explores  the  slip  for  a  little  while  and 
at  last  resolves  to  make  use  of  it.  Before  the 
day  is  over,  he  has  clothed  himself  in  grey 
velvet  out  of  the  Great  Peacock's  scales.  Con- 
sidering the  delicacy  of  the  materials,  the 
work  is  exquisitely  correct. 

'Cf.  Chapter  XL  of  the  present  volume. — Translator's 
Note. 

326 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

Let  us  go  a  step  farther  in  our  explora- 
tions. For  the  soft,  yielding  wadding  col- 
lected from  a  plant,  or  the  down  gleaned 
from  the  wing  of  a  Moth,  we  will  substitute 
rough  stone.  In  their  final  state,  I  know,  the 
Psyches'  cases  are  often  laden  with  grains  of 
sand  and  earthy  particles;  but  these  are  acci- 
dental bricks,  which  have  been  inadvertently 
touched  by  the  spinneret  and  incorporated 
unintentionally  in  the  thatch.  The  delicate 
creatures  know  too  well  the  drawbacks  of  a 
pebbly  pillow  to  seek  the  support  of  stone. 
Mineral  matter  is  distasteful  to  them;  and  it 
is  mineral  matter  that  now  has  to  be  worked 
like  wool. 

True,  I  select  such  stones  in  my  collection 
as  are  least  out  of  keeping  with  the  feeble 
powers  of  my  grubs.  I  possess  a  specimen 
of  flaky  hematite.  At  the  rmerest  touch  of  a 
hair-pencil  it  breaks  into  atoms  almost  as 
minute  as  the  dust  which  a  Butterfly's  wing 
leaves  on  our  fingers.  On  a  bed  of  this  ma- 
terial, which  glitters  like  a  steel  filing,  I  esta- 
blish four  young  caterpillars  extracted  from 
their  clothing.  I  foresee  a  check  in  this  ex- 
periment and  consequently  increase  the  num- 
ber of  my  subjects. 

227 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

It  is  as  I  thought.  The  day  passes  and  the 
four  caterpillars  remain  bare.  Next  day, 
however,  one,  one  alone,  decides  to  clothe 
himself.  His  work  is  a  tiara  with  metallic 
facets,  in  which  the  light  plays  with  flashes  of 
every  colour  of  the  rainbow.  It  is  very  rich, 
very  sumptuous,  but  mightily  heavy  and  cum- 
brous. Walking  becomes  laborious  under 
that  load  of  metal.  Even  so  must  a  Byzan- 
tine emperor  have  progressed  at  ceremonies 
of  state,  after  donning  his  gold-worked  dal- 
matic. 

Poor  little  creature!  More  sensible  than 
man,  you  did  not  select  that  ridiculous  mag- 
nificence of  your  own  free  will;  it  was  I  who 
forced  it  on  you.  Here,  to  make  amends,  is  a 
disk  of  sorghum-pith.  Fling  off  your  proud 
tiara,  thrust  it  from  you  quickly  and  place  in 
its  stead  a  cotton  night-cap,  which  is  much 
healthier.  This  is  done  on  the  second  day. 

The  Psyche  has  his  favourite  materials 
when  starting  as  a  manufacturer:  a  vegetable 
lint  collected  from  any  ligneous  scrap  well 
softened  by  the  air,  a  lint  usually  supplied  by 
the  old  roof  of  the  maternal  hut.  In  the 
absence  of  the  regulation  fabric,  he  is  able  to 
make  use  of  animal  velvet,  in  particular  of  the 
228 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

scaly  fluff  of  a  Moth.  In  case  of  necessity,  he 
does  not  shrink  from  acts  of  sheer  madness: 
he  weaves  mineral  matter,  so  urgent  is  his 
need  to  clothe  himself. 

This  need  outweighs  that  of  nourishment. 
I  take  a  young  caterpillar  from  his  grazing- 
ground,  a  leaf  of  very  hairy  hawkweed  which, 
after  many  attempts,  I  have  found  to  suit  him 
as  food  because  of  its  green  blade  and  as  wool 
because  of  its  white  fleece.  I  take  him,  I  say, 
from  his  refectory  and  leave  him  to  fast  for 
a  couple  of  days.  Then  I  strip  him  and  put 
him  back  on  h:s  leaf.  And  I  see  him,  unmind- 
ful of  eating,  in  spite  of  his  long  fast,  first 
labouring  to  make  himself  a  new  coat  by  col- 
lecting the  hairs  of  the  hawkweed.  His  appe- 
tite will  be  satisfied  afterwards. 

Is  he  then  so  susceptible  to  cold?  We  are 
in  the  midst  of  the  dog-days.  The  sun  shoots 
down  a  fiery  torrent  that  brings  the  wild  con- 
cert of  the  Cicada?  up  to  fever-pitch.  In  the 
baking  heat  of  the  study  where  I  am  question- 
ing my  animals,  I  have  flung  off  hat  and  neck- 
tie and  am  working  in  my  shirt-sleeves;  and, 
in  this  oven,  what  the  Psyche  clamours  for  is, 
above  all  things,  a  warm  covering.  Well,  lit- 
tle shiverer,  I  will  satisfy  you ! 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

I  expose  him  to  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun, 
on  the  window-ledge.  This  time,  it  is  too 
much  of  a  good  thing;  I  have  gone  beyond 
all  bounds.  The  sun-scorched  one  wriggles 
about,  flourishes  his  abdomen,  always  a  sign 
of  discomfort.  But  the  making  of  the  hawk- 
weed  cassock  is  not  suspended  on  this  account; 
on  the  contrary,  it  is  pursued  more  hurriedly 
than  ever.  Could  this  be  because  of  the  ex- 
cessive light?  Is  not  the  cotton-wool  bag  a 
retreat  wherein  the  caterpillar  isolates  him- 
self, sheltering  from  the  importunities  of 
broad  daylight,  and  gently  digests  and  sleeps? 
Let  us  get  rid  of  the  light,  while  retaining  a 
warm  temperature. 

After  a  preliminary  stripping,  the  little 
caterpillars  are  now  lodged  in  a  cardboard 
box,  which  I  place  in  the  sunniest  corner  of 
my  window.  The  temperature  here  is  well 
over  iooc  F.  No  matter:  the  swan's-down 
sack  is  remade  at  a  sitting  of  a  few  hours. 
Tropical  heat  and  the  quiet  that  goes  with 
darkness  have  made  no  difference  in  the  in- 
sect's habits. 

Neither  the  degree  of  heat  nor  the  degree 
of  light  explains  the  pressing  need  of  rai- 
ment. Where  are  we  to  seek  the  reason  for 
230 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

that  hurry  to  get  clad?  I  can  see  none  save 
a  presentiment  of  the  future.  The  Psyche 
caterpillar  has  the  winter  before  him.  He 
knows  nothing  of  a  common  shelter  in  a 
silken  purse,  of  cabins  among  close-touching 
leaves,  of  underground  cells,  of  retreats  under 
old  cracked  bark,  of  hairy  roofs,  of  cocoons, 
in  short  of  the  different  methods  employed 
by  other  caterpillars  to  protect  themselves 
against  the  severity  of  the  weather.  He  has 
to  spend  the  winter  exposed  to  the  inclemen- 
cies of  the  air.  This  peril  causes  his  particu- 
lar talent. 

He  builds  himself  a  roof  whose  imbricated 
and  diverging  stalks  will  allow  cold  dews  and 
drops  of  melted  snow  to  trickle  away  at  a 
distance,  when  the  case  is  fixed  and  hanging 
vertically.  Under  this  covering,  he  weaves  a 
thick  silk  lining,  which  will  make  a  soft  mat- 
tress and  a  rampart  against  the  effects  of  the 
cold.  Once  these  precautions  are  taken, 
the  wiinter  'may  come  and  the  north  wind 
rage :  the  Psyche  is  sleeping  peacefully  in  his 
hut. 

But  all  this  is  not  improvised  as  the  stormy 
season  approaches.  It  is  a  delicate  work 
which  takes  time  to  carry  out.  All  his  life- 
231 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

long  the  caterpillar  labours  at  it,  improving 
it,  adding  to  it,  strengthening  it  incessantly. 
And,  in  order  to  acquire  greater  skill,  he  be- 
gins his  apprenticeship  at  the  moment  when 
he  leaves  the  egg.  As  preliminary  practice 
for  the  thick  overcoat  of  full-grown  age,  he 
tries  his  hand  on  cotton  capes.  Even  so  does 
the  Pine  Processionary,  as  soon  as  hatched, 
weave  first  delicate  tents,  then  gauzy  cupolas, 
as  harbingers  of  the  mighty  wallet  in  which 
the  community  will  make  its  home.  Both 
alike  are  harassed  from  the  day  of  their 
birth  by  the  presentiment  of  the  future; 
they  start  life  by  binding  themselves  appren- 
tices to  the  trade  that  is  to  safeguard  them 
one  day. 

No,  the  Psyche  is  not  more  sensitive  to 
cold  than  any  other  smooth-skinned  cater- 
pillar; he  is  a  creature  of  foresight.  De- 
prived in  winter  of  the  shelters  granted  to 
the  others,  he  prepares  himself,  from  his 
birth,  for  the  building  of  a  home  that  will 
be  his  salvation  and  practises  for  it  by  ma- 
king fripperies  of  wadding  suited  to  his 
strength.  He  foresees  the  rigours  of-winter 
during  the  blazing  dog-days. 

They  are  now  all  clad,  my  young  caterpil- 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

lars,  numbering  nearly  a  thousand.  They 
wander  restlessly  in  large  glass  receptacles, 
closed  with  a  sheet  of  glass.  What  do  you 
seek,  little  ones,  swinging  your  pretty,  snow- 
white  cloaks  as  you  go?  Food,  of  course. 
After  all  that  fatigue,  you  need  refresh- 
ment. Despite  your  numbers,  you  will  not 
be  too  heavy  a  burden  on  my  resources :  you 
can  manage  with  so  little !  But  what  do  you 
ask  for?  You  certainly  do  not  count  on  me 
for  your  supplies.  In  the  open  fields  you 
would  have  found  victuals  to  your  liking 
much  more  easily  than  I  can  hope  to  find  them 
for  you.  Since  my  wish  to  know  all  about 
you  places  you  in  my  charge,  I  have  a  duty 
which  I  must  observe:  that  of  feeding  you. 
What  do  you  want? 

The  part  of  Providence  is  a  very  difficult 
one  to  play.  The  purveyor  of  foodstuffs, 
thinking  of  the  morrow,  taking  his  precau- 
tions so  that  the  home  may  be  always  more  or 
less  supplied,  performs  the  most  deserving  but 
also  the  most  laborious  of  functions.  The 
little  ones  wait  trustingly,  persuaded  that 
things  happen  of  themselves,  while  he  an- 
xiously resorts  to  every  kind  of  ingenuity  and 
trouble,  wondering  whether  the  right  thing 

233 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

will  come.  Ah,  how  well  long  practice  has 
taught  me  to  know  the  trade,  with  all  its  wor- 
ries and  all  its  joys! 

Behold  me  to-day  the  Providence  of  a  thou- 
sand nurselings  thrust  upon  me  by  my  studies. 
I  try  a  little  of  everything.  The  tender  leaves 
of  the  elm  appear  to  suit.  If  I  serve  them  up 
one  day,  I  find  them  next  morning  nibbled  on 
the  surface,  in  small  patches.  Tiny  grains  of 
Impalpable  black  dust,  scattered  here  and 
there,  tell  me  that  the  intestines  have  been 
at  work.  This  gives  me  a  moment  of  satis- 
faction which  will  be  readily  understood  by 
any  breeder  of  a  herd  whose  diet  is  unknown. 
The  hope  of  success  gains  strength:  I  know 
how  to  feed  my  vermin.  Have  I  discovered 
the  best  method  at  the  first  attempt?  I  dare 
not  think  so. 

I  continue  therefore  to  vary  the  fare,  but 
the  results  hardly  come  up  to  my  wishes.  The 
flock  refuses  my  assorted  green  stuff  and  even 
ends  by  taking  a  dislike  to  the  elm-leaves.  I 
am  beginning  to  believe  that  I  have  failed  ut- 
terly, when  a  happy  inspiration  occurs  to  me. 
I  have  recognized  among  the  bits  that  go  to 
form  the  case  a  few  fragments  of  the  mouse- 
ear  hawkweed  (Hieracium  pilosella).  So  the 

234 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

Psyche  frequents  that  plant.  Why  should  he 
not  browse  it?  Let  us  try. 

The  mouse-ear  displays  its  little  round  flow- 
ers in  profusion  in  a  stony  field  just  beside  my 
house,  at  the  foot  of  the  wall  where  I  have 
so  often  found  Psyche-cases  hanging.  I 
gather  a  handful  and  distribute  it  among  my 
different  folds.  This  time  the  food-problem 
is  solved.  The  Psyches  forthwith  settle  in 
solid  masses  on  the  hairy  leaves  and  nibble  at 
them  greedily  in  small  patches,  in  which  the 
epidermis  of  the  other  surface  remains  un- 
touched. 

We  will  leave  them  to  their  grazing,  with 
which  they  seem  quite  satisfied,  and  ask  our- 
selves a  certain  question  relating  to  cleanli- 
ness. How  does  the  little  Psyche  get  rid  of 
his  digestive  refuse?  Remember  that  he  is 
enclosed  in  a  sack.  One  dare  not  entertain 
the  thought  of  ordure  ejected  and  accumula- 
ting at  the  far  end  of  the  dazzling  white  plush 
cap.  Filth  cannot  dwell  under  so  elegant  a 
covering.  How  is  the  sordid  evacuation  man- 
aged? 

Despite  the  fact  that  it  ends  in  a  conical 
point,  in  which  the  lens  reveals  no  break  of 
continuity,  the  sack  is  not  closed  at  the  hind- 
235 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

cr  end.  Its  method  of  manufacture,  by 
means  of  a  waistband  whose  fore-edge  in- 
creases in  dimensions  in  proportion  as  the 
rear-edge  is  pushed  farther  back,  proves  this 
sufficiently.  The  hinder  end  becomes  pointed 
simply  owing  to  the  shrinking  of  the  material, 
which  contracts  of  itself  at  the  part  where  the 
caterpillar's  decreasing  diameter  no  longer 
distends  it.  There  is  thus  at  the  point  a  per- 
manent hole  whose  lips  remain  closed.  The 
caterpillar  has  only  to  go  a  little  way  back 
and  the  stuff  expands,  the  hole  widens,  the 
road  is  open  and  the  excretions  fall  to  the 
ground.  On  the  other  hand,  so  soon  as  the 
caterpillar  takes  a  step  forward  into  his  case, 
the  rubbish-shoot  closes  of  itself.  It  is  a  very 
simple  and  very  ingenious  mechanism,  as  good 
as  anything  contrived  by  our  seamstresses  to 
cope  with  the  shortcomings  of  a  boy's  first 
pair  of  breeches. 

Meanwhile  the  grub  grows  and  its  tunic 
continues  to  fit  it,  is  neither  too  large  nor  too 
small,  but  just  the  right  size.  How  is  this 
done?  If  the  text-books  were  to  be  credited, 
I  might  expect  to  see  the  caterpillar  split  his 
sheath  lengthwise  when  it  became  too  tight 
and  afterwards  enlarge  it  by  means  of  a  piece 
236 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

woven  between  the  edges  of  the  rent.  That 
is  what  our  tailors  do;  but  it  is  not  the  Psy- 
ches' method  at  all.  They  know  something 
much  better.  They  keep  on  working  at  their 
coat,  which  is  old  at  the  back,  new  in  front 
and  always  a  perfect  fit  for  the  growing  body. 

Nothing  is  easier  than  to  watch  the  daily 
progress  in  size.  A  few  caterpillars  have  just 
made  themselves  a  hood  of  sorghum-pith. 
The  work  is  perfectly  beautiful;  it  mi^ht  have 
been  woven  out  of  snow-flakes.  I  'snlate 
these  smartly-dressed  ones  and  give  them  as 
weaving-materials  some  brown  scales  chosen 
from  the  softest  parts  that  I  can  find  in  old 
bark.  Between  morning  and  evening,  the 
hood  assumes  a  new  appearance:  the  tip  of 
the  cone  is  still  a  spotless  white,  but  all  the 
front  part  is  coarse  drapery,  very  different  in 
colouring  from  the  original  plush.  Next  day, 
the  sorghum  felt  has  wholly  disappeared  and 
is  replaced,  from  one  end  of  the  cone  to  the 
other,  by  a  frieze  of  bark. 

I  then  take  away  the  brown  materials  and 
put  sorghum-pith  in  their  stead.  This  time 
the  coarse,  dark  stuff  retreats  gradually  to- 
wards the  top  of  the  hood,  while  the  soft, 
white  stuff  gains  in  width,  starting  from  the 

23? 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

mouth.  Before  the  day  is  over,  the  original 
elegant  mitre  will  be  reconstructed  entirely. 

This  alternation  can  be  repeated  as  often 
as  we  please.  Indeed,  by  shortening  each 
period  of  work,  we  can  easily  obtain,  with  the 
two  sorts  of  material,  composite  products, 
showing  alternate  light  and  dark  belts. 

The  Psyche,  as  you  see,  in  no  way  follows 
the  methods  of  our  tailors,  with  their  piece 
taken  out  and  another  piece  let  in.  In  order 
to  have  a  coat  always  to  his  size,  he  never 
ceases  working  at  it.  The  particles  collected 
are  constantly  being  fixed  just  at  the  edge  of 
the  sack,  so  that  the  new  drapery  increases 
progressively  in  dimensions,  keeping  pace 
with  the  caterpillar's  growth.  At  the  same 
time  the  old  stuff  recedes,  is  driven  back  to- 
wards the  tip  of  the  cone.  Here,  through  its 
own  springiness,  it  contracts  and  closes  the 
muff.  Any  surplus  matter  disintegrates,  falls 
into  shreds  and  gradually  disappears  as  the 
insect  roams  about  and  knocks  against  the 
things  which  it  meets.  The  case,  new  at  the 
front  and  old  at  the  back,  is  never  too  tight 
because  it  is  always  being  renewed. 

After  the  very  hot  period  of  the  year,  there 
comes  a  moment  when  light  wraps  are  no 
238 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

longer  seasonable.  Autumnal  rains  threaten-, 
followed  by  winter  frosts.  It  is  time  to  make 
ourselves  a  thick  great-coat  with  a  cape  of 
thatch  arranged  in  a  series  of  waterproof  tip- 
pets. It  begins  with  a  great  lack  of  accuracy. 
Straws  of  uneven  length  and  bits  of  dry  leaves 
are  fastened,  with  no  attempt  at  order,  behind 
the  neck  of  the  sack,  which  must  still  retain 
its  flexibility  so  as  to  allow  the  caterpillar  to 
bend  freely  in  every  direction. 

Few  as  yet,  rather  short  and  placed  any- 
how, sometimes  lengthways  and  sometimes 
across,  these  untidy  first  logs  of  the  roof  will 
not  interfere  with  the  final  regularity  of  the 
building:  they  are  destined  to  disappear  and 
will  be  pushed  back  and  be  driven  out  at  last 
as  the  sack  grows  in  front. 

Later  on,  when  the  pieces  are  longer  and 
better-chosen,  they  are  all  carefully  laid  longi- 
tudinally. The  placing  of  a  straw  is  done 
with  surprising  quickness  and  dexterity.  If 
the  log  which  he  has  found  suits  him,  the 
caterpillar  takes  it  between  his  legs  and  turns 
it  round  and  round.  Gripping  it  with  his 
mandibles  by  one  end,  as  a  rule  he  removes 
a  few  morsels  from  this  part  and  immediately 
fixes  them  to  the  neck  of  the  sack.  His  ob- 
239 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

ject  in  laying  bare  the  raw  and  rough  sur- 
faces, to  which  the  silk  will  stick  better,  may 
be  to  obtain  a  firmer  hold.  Even  'so  the 
plumber  gives  a  touch  of  the  file  at  the  point 
that  is  to  be  soldered. 

Then,  by  sheer  strength  of  jaw,  the  cater- 
pillar lifts  his  beam,  brandishes  it  in  the  air 
and,  with  a  quick  movement  of  his  rump,  lays 
it  on  his  back.  The  spinneret  at  once  sets  to 
work  on  the  end  caught.  And  the  thing  is 
done :  without  any  groping  about  or  correct- 
ing, the  log  is  added  to  the  others,  in  the  di- 
rection required. 

The  fine  days  of  autumn  are  spent  in  toil  of 
this  kind,  performed  leisurely  and  intermit- 
tently, when  the  stomach  is  full.  By  the  time 
that  the  cold  weather  arrives,  the  house  is 
ready.  When  the  air  is  once  more  warm,  the 
Psyche  resumes  his  walks  abroad :  he  roams 
along  the  paths,  strolls  over  the  friendly 
greensward,  takes  a  few  mouthfuls  and  then, 
when  the  hour  has  come,  prepares  for  his 
transformation  by  hanging  from  the  wall. 

These  springtime  wanderings,   long  after 

the  case  is  completely  finished,  made  me  want 

to  know  if  the  caterpillar  would  be  capable  of 

repeating  his  sack-weaving  and  roof-building 

240 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

operations.  I  take  him  out  of  his  case  and 
place  him,  stark  naked,  on  a  bed  of  fine,  dry 
sand.  I  give  him  as  materials  to  work  with 
some  old  stalks  of  Nimes  dandelion,  cut  up 
into  sticks  of  the  same  length  as  the  pieces 
that  make  the  case. 

The  evicted  insect  disappears  under  the 
heap  of  ligneous  straws  and  hurriedly  starts 
spinning,  taking  as  pegs  for  its  cords  anything 
that  its  lips  encounter:  the  bed  of  sand  under- 
foot, the  canopy  of  twigs  overhead.  So  do- 
ing, it  binds  together,  in  extricable  confusion, 
all  the  pieces  touched  by  the  spinneret,  long 
and  short,  light  and  heavy,  at  random.  In 
the  centre  of  this  tangled  scaffolding,  a  work 
is  pursued  of  a  quite  different  nature  from 
that  of  hut-building.  The  caterpillar  weaves 
and  does  nothing  else,  not  even  attempting  to 
assemble  into  a  proper  roofing  the  materials 
of  which  he  is  able  to  dispose. 

The  Psyche  owning  a  perfect  case,  when 
he  resumes  his  activity  with  the  fine  weather, 
scorns  his  old  trade  as  an  assembler  of  logs, 
a  trade  practised  so  zealously  during  the  pre- 
vious summer.  Now  that  his  stomach  is  satis- 
fied and  his  silk-glands  distended,  he  devotes 
his  spare  time  solely  to  improving  the  quilting 

241 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

of  his  case.  The  silky  felt  of  the  interior  is 
never  thick  or  soft  enough  to  please  him.  The 
thicker  and  softer  it  is,  the  better  for  his  own 
comfort  during  the  process  of  transformation 
and  for  the  safety  of  his  family  afterwards. 

Well,  my  knavish  tricks  have  now  robbed 
him  of  everything.  Does  he  perceive  the  dis- 
aster? Though  the  silk  and  timber  at  his 
disposal  permit,  does  he  dream  of  rebuilding 
the  shelter,  so  essential  first  to  his  chilly  back 
and  secondly  to  his  family,  who  will  cut  it  up 
to  make  their  first  home?  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
He  slips  under  the  mass  of  twigs  where  I  let 
it  fall  and  there  begins  to  work  exactly  as 
he  would  have  done  under  normal  conditions. 

This  shapeless  roof  and  this  sand  on  which 
the  jumble  of  rafters  are  lying  now  represent 
to  the  Psyche  the  walls  of  the  regulation 
home;  and,  without  in  any  way  modifying  his 
labours  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  moment, 
the  caterpillar  upholsters  the  surfaces  within 
his  reach  with  the  same  zest  that  he  would 
have  displayed  in  adding  new  layers  to  the 
quilted  lining  which  has  disappeared.  Instead 
of  being  pasted  on  the  proper  wall,  the  pre- 
sent hangings  come  in  contact  with  the  rough 
surface  of  the  sand  and  the  hopeless  tangle 
242 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

of  the  straws;  and  the  spinner  takes  nc 
notice. 

The  house  is  worse  than  ruined:  it  no 
longer  exists.  No  matter :  the  caterpillar  con- 
tinues his  actual  work;  he  loses  sight  of  the 
real  and  upholsters  the  imaginary.1  And  yet 
everything  ought  to  apprise  him  of  the  ab- 
sence of  any  roofing.  The  sack  with  which 
he  has  managed  to  cover  himself,  very  skil- 
fully for  that  matter,  is  lamentably  flabby. 
It  sags  and  rumples  at  every  movement  of 
the  insect's  body.  Moverover,  it  is  made 
heavy  with  sand  and  bristles  with  spikes  in 
every  direction,  which  catch  in  the  dust  of  the 
road  and  make  all  progress  impossible.  Thus 
anchored  to  the  ground,  the  caterpillar  wastes 
his  strength  in  efforts  to  shift  his  position. 
It  takes  him  hours  to  make  a  start  and  to 
move  his  cumbrous  dwelling  a  fraction  of  an 
inch. 

With  his  normal  case,  in  which  all  the 
beams  are  imbricated  from  front  to  back  with 
scientific  precision,  he  gets  along  very  nimbly. 

1  For  other  instances  of  what  Fabre  calls  "the  insect's 
mental  incapacity  in  the  presence  of  the  accidental"  I 
would  refer  the  reader  to  one  essay  inter  alia,  entitled, 
Some  Reflections  upon  Insect  Psychology,  which  forms 
chap.  vii.  of  The  Mason-bees. — Translator's  Note. 

243 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

His  collection  of  logs,  all  fixed  in  front  and 
all  free  at  the  back,  forms  a  boat-shaped 
sledge  which  slips  and  glides  through  ob- 
stacles without  difficulty.  But,  though  pro- 
gress be  easy,  retreat  is  impracticable,  for  each 
piece  of  the  framework  causes  the  thing  to 
stop,  owing  to  its  free  end. 

Well,  the  sack  of  my  victim  is  covered  with 
laths  pointing  this  way  and  that,  just  in  the 
position  in  which  they  happened  to  be  caught 
by  the  spinneret,  as  it  fastened  its  threads 
here  and  there,  indiscriminately.  The  bits  in 
front  are  so  many  spurs  which  dig  into  the 
sand  and  neutralize  all  efforts  to  advance;  the 
bits  at  the  side  are  rakes  whose  resistance  can- 
not be  overcome.  In  such  conditions,  the  in- 
sect is  bound  to  be  stranded  and  to  perish  on 
the  spot. 

If  I  were  advising  the  caterpillar,  I  should 
say: 

"Go  back  to  the  art  in  which  you  excel;  ar- 
range your  bundle  neatly;  point  the  cumbrous 
pieces  lengthwise,  in  an  orderly  fashion;  do 
something  to  your  sack,  which  hangs  too 
loosely;  give  it  the  necessary  stiffness  with  a 
few  props  to  act  as  a  busk;  do  now,  in  your 
distress,  what  you  knew  so  well  how  to  do  be- 
244 


The  Psyches:  the  Cases 

fore;  summon  up  your  old  carpentering-tal- 
ents  and  you  will  be  saved." 

Useless  advice !  The  time  for  carpentry  is 
over.  The  hour  has  come  for  upholstering; 
and  he  upholsters  obstinately,  padding  a  house 
which  no  longer  exists.  He  will  perish  miser- 
ably, cut  up  by  the  Ants,  as  the  result  of  his 
too-rigid  instinct. 

Many  other  instances  have  already  told  us 
as  much.  Like  running  water  which  does  not 
climb  slopes  and  which  does  not  flow  back  to 
its  source,  the  insect  never  retraces  its  actions. 
What  is  done  is  done  and  cannot  be  recom- 
menced. The  Psyche,  but  now  a  clever  car- 
penter, will  die  for  want  of  knowing  how  to 
fix  a  beam. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    GREAT    PEACOCK 

IP  WAS  a  memorable  evening.  I  shall  call 
it  the  Great  Peacock  evening.  Who  does 
not  know  the  magnificent  Moth,  the  largest 
in  Europe,  clad  in  maroon  velvet  with  a 
necktie  of  white  fur?  The  wings,  with  their 
sprinkling  of  grey  and  brown,  crossed  by  a 
faint  zig-zag  and  edged  with  smoky  white, 
have  in  the  centre  a  round  patch,  a  great  eye 
with  a  black  pupil  and  a  variegated  iris  con- 
taining successive  black,  white,  chestnut  and 
purple  arcs. 

No  less  remarkable  is  the  caterpillar,  in 
colour  an  undecided  yellow.  On  the  top  of 
thinly-scattered  tubercles,  crowned  with  a 
palisade  of  black  hairs,  are  set  beads  of  tur- 
quoise blue.  His  stout  brown  cocoon,  so  curi- 
ous with  its  exit-shaft  shaped  like  an  eel-trap, 
is  usually  fastened  to  the  bark  at  the  base  of 
old  almond-trees.  The  caterpillar  feeds  on 
the  leaves  of  the  same  tree. 

Well,  on  the  morning  of  the  6th  of  May, 
a  female  emerges  from  her  cocoon  in  my 


The  Great  Peacock 

presence,  on  the  table  of  my  insect-laboratory. 
I  forthwith  cloister  her,  still  damp  with  the 
humours  of  the  hatching,  under  a  wire-gauze 
bell-jar.  For  the  rest,  I  cherish  no  particular 
plans.  I  incarcerate  her  from  mere  habit,  the 
habit  of  the  observer  always  on  the  look-out 
for  what  may  happen. 

It  was  a  lucky  thought.  At  nine  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  just  as  the  household  is  going  to 
bed,  there  is  a  great  stir  in  the  room  next  to 
mine.  Little  Paul,  half-undressed,  is  rushing 
about,  jumping  and  stamping,  knocking  the 
chairs  over  like  a  mad  thing.  I  hear  him  call 
me : 

"Come  quick!"  he  screams.  "Come  and 
see  these  Moths,  big  as  birds !  The  room  is 
full  of  them!" 

I  hurry  in.  There  is  enough  to  justify  the 
child's  enthusiastic  and  hyperbolical  exclama- 
tions, an  invasion  as  yet  unprecedented  in  our 
house,  a  {raid  of  giant  Moths.  Four  are 
already  caught  and  lodged  in  a  bird-cage. 
Others,  more  numerous,  are  fluttering  on  the 
ceiling. 

At  this  sight,  the  prisoner  of  the  morning 
is  .recalled  to  my  mind. 

"Put  on  your  things,  laddie,"  I  say  to  my 

247 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

son.  "Leave  your  cage  and  come  with  me. 
We  shall  see  something  interesting." 

We  run  downstairs  to  go  to  my  study, 
which  occupies  the  right  wing  of  the  house. 
In  the  kitchen  I  find  the  servant,  who  is  also 
bewildered  by  what  is  happening  and  stands 
flicking  her  apron  at  great  Moths  whom  she 
took  at  first  for  Bats. 

The  Great  Peacock,  it  would  seem,  has 
taken  possession  of  pretty  well  every  part  of 
the  house.  What  will  it  be  around  my  prisoner, 
the  cause  of  this  incursion?  Luckily,  one  of 
the  two  windows  of  the  study  had  been  left 
open.  The  approach  is  not  blocked. 

We  enter  the  room,  candle  in  hand.  What 
we  see  is  unforgetable.  With  a  soft  flick- 
flack  the  great  Moths  fly  around  the  bell- 
jar,  alight,  set  off  again,  come  back,  fly  up  to 
the  ceiling  and  down.  They  rush  at  the 
candle,  putting  it  out  with  a  stroke  of  their 
wings;  they  descend  on  our  shoulders,  cling 
ing  to  our  clothes,  grazing  our  faces.  The 
scene  suggests  a  wizard's  cave,  with  its  whirl 
of  Bats.  Little  Paul  holds  my  hand  tighter 
than  usual,  to  keep  up  his  courage. 

How  many  of  them  are  there?  About  a 
score  Add  to  these  the  number  that  have 
248 


The  Great  Peacock 

strayed  into  the  kitchen,  the  nursery  and  the 
other  rooms  of  the  house;  and  the  total  of 
those  who  have  arrived  from  the  outside  can- 
not fall  far  short  of  forty.  As  I  said,  it  was  a 
memorable  evening,  this  Great  Peacock  even- 
ing. Coming  from  every  direction  and  ap- 
prised I  know  not  how,  here  are  forty  lovers 
eager  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  marriage- 
able bride  born  that  morning  amid  the  mys- 
teries of  my  study. 

For  the  moment  let  us  disturb  the  swarm 
of  wooers  no  further.  The  flame  of  the 
candle  is  a  danger  to  the  visitors,  who  fling 
themselves  into  it  madly  and  singe  their 
wings.  We  will  resume  the  observation  to- 
morrow with  an  experimental  interrogatory 
thought  out  beforehand. 

But  first  let  us  clear  the  ground  and  speak 
of  what  happens  every  night  during  the  week 
that  my  observation  lasts.  Each  time  it  is 
pitch  dark,  between  eight  and  ten  o'clock, 
when  the  Moths  arrive  one  by  one.  It  is 
stormy  weather,  the  sky  is  very  much  over- 
cast and  the  darkness  is  so  profound  that  even 
in  the  open  air,  in  the  garden,  far  from  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  it  is  hardly  possible  to 
see  one's  hand  before  one's  face. 
249 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

In  addition  to  this  darkness  there  is  the 
difficulty  of  access.  The  house  is  hidden  by 
tall  plane-trees;  it  is  approached  by  a  walk 
thickly  bordered  with  lilac-  and  rose-trees, 
forming  a  sort  of  outer  vestibule;  it  is  pro- 
tected against  the  mistral  by  clumps  of  pines 
and  screens  of  cypresses.  Clusters  of  bushy 
shrubs  make  a  rampart  a  few  steps  away  from 
the  door.  It  is  through  this  tangle  of 
branches,  in  complete  darkness,  that  the  Great 
Peacock  has  to  tack  about  to  reach  the  ob- 
ject of  his  pilgrimage. 

Under  such  conditions,  the  Brown  Owl 
would  not  dare  leave  the  hole  in  his  olive- 
tree.  The  Moth,  better-endowed  with  his 
faceted  optical  organs  than  the  night-bird 
with  its  great  eyes,  goes  forward  without 
hesitating  and  passes  through  without  knock- 
ing against  things.  He  directs  his  tortuous 
flight  so  skilfully  that,  despite  the  obstacles 
overcome,  he  arrives  in  a  state  of  perfect 
freshness,  with  his  big  wings  intact,  with  not 
a  scratch  upon  him.  The  darkness  is  light 
enough  for  him. 

Even  if  we  grant  that  it  perceives  certain 
rays  unknown  to  common  retinae,  this  extra- 
ordinary power  of  sight  cannot  be  what 
250 


The  Great  Peacock 

warns  the  Moth  from  afar  and  brings  him 
hurrying  to  the  spot.  The  distance  and  the 
screens  interposed  make  this  quite  impossible. 

Besides,  apart  from  deceptive  refractions, 
of  which  there  is  no  question  in  this  case,  the 
indications  provided  by  light  are  so  precise 
that  we  go  straight  to  the  thing  seen.  Now 
the  Moth  sometimes  blunders,  not  as  to  the 
general  direction  which  he  is  to  take,  but  as  to 
the  exact  spot  where  the  interesting  events 
are  happening.  I  have  said  that  the  child- 
ren's nursery,  which  is  at  the  side  of  the 
house  opposite  my  study,  the  real  goal  of  my 
visitors  at  the  present  moment,  was  occupied 
by  the  Moths  before  I  went  there  with  a  light 
in  my  hand.  These  certainly  were  ill- 
informed.  There  was  the  same  throng  of 
hesitating  visitors  in  the  kitchen;  but  here  the 
light  of  a  lamp,  that  irresistible  lure  to  noctur- 
nal insects,  may  have  beguiled  the  eager  ones. 

Let  us  consider  only  the  places  that  were 
in  the  dark.  In  these  there  are  several  stray 
Moths.  I  find  them  more  or  less  everywhere 
around  the  actual  spot  aimed  at.  For  in- 
stance, when  the  captive  is  in  my  study,  the 
visitors  do  not  all  enter  by  the  open  window, 
the  safe  and  direct  road,  only  two  or  three 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

yards  away  from  the  caged  prisoner.  Several 
of  them  come  in  downstairs,  wander  about 
the  hall  and  at  most  reach  the  staircase,  a 
blind  alley  barred  at  the  top  by  a  closed  door. 

These  data  tell  us  that  the  guests  at  this 
nuptial  feast  do  not  make  straight  for  their 
object,  as  they  would  if  they  derived  their  in- 
formation from  some  kind  of  luminous  ra- 
diation, whether  known  or  unknown  to  our 
physical  science.  It  is  something  else  that  ap- 
prises them  from  afar,  leads  them  to  the  prox- 
imity of  the  exact  spot  and  then  leaves  the 
final  discovery  to  the  airy  uncertainty  of  ran- 
dom searching.  It  is  very  much  like  the  way 
in  which  we  ourselves  are  informed  by  hear- 
ing and  smell,  guides  which  are  far  from  ac- 
curate when  we  want  to  decide  the  precise 
point  of  origin  of  the  sound  or  the  smell. 

What  are  the  organs  of  information  that 
direct  the  rutting  Moth  on  his  nightly  pil- 
grimage? One  suspects  the  antennae,  which, 
in  the  males,  do  in  fact  seem  to  be  question- 
ing space  with  their  spreading  tufts  of 
feathers.  Are  those  glorious  plumes  mere 
ornaments,  or  do  they  at  the  same  time  play 
a  part  in  the  perception  of  the  effluvia  that 
guide  the  enamoured  swain?  A  conclusive 


The  Great  Peacock 

experiment  seems  to  present  no  difficulty. 
Let  us  try  it. 

On  the  day  after  the  invasion,  I  find  in  the 
study  eight  of  my  visitors  of  the  day  before. 
They  are  perched  motionless  on  the  trans- 
oms of  the  second  window,  which  is  kept 
closed.  The  others,  when  their  dance  was 
over,  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  went 
out  as  they  came  in,  that  is  to  say,  through  the 
first  window,  which  is  left  open  day  and  night. 
Those  eight  persevering  ones  are  just  what  I 
want  for  my  schemes. 

With  a  sharp  pair  of  scissors,  without 
otherwise  touching  the  Moths,  I  cut  off  their 
antennae,  near  the  base.  The  patients  take 
hardly  any  notice  of  the  operation.  Not  one 
moves;  there  is  scarcely  a  flutter  of  the  wings. 
These  are  excellent  conditions:  the  wound 
does  not  seem  at  all  serious.  Undistraught 
by  pain,  the  Moths  bereft  of  their  horns  will 
adapt  themselves  all  the  better  to  my  plans. 
The  rest  of  the  day  is  spent  in  placid  immo- 
bility on  the  cross-bars  of  the  window. 

There  are  still  a  few  arrangements  to  be 
made.  It  is  important  in  particular  to  shift 
the  scene  of  operations  and  not  to  leave  the 
female  before  the  eyes  of  the  maimed  ones 

253 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

at  the  moment  when  they  resume  their  noc- 
turnal flight,  else  the  merit  of  their  quest 
would  disappear.  I  therefore  move  the  bell- 
jar  with  its  captives  and  place  it  under  a  porch 
at  the  other  end  of  the  house,  some  fifty  yards 
from  my  study. 

When  night  comes,  I  go  to  make  a  last  in- 
spection of  my  eight  victims.  Six  have  flown 
out  through  the  open  window;  two  remain 
behind,  but  these  have  dropped  to  the  floor 
and  no  longer  have  the  strength  to  turn  over 
if  I  lay  them  on  their  backs.  They  are  ex- 
hausted, dying.  Pray  do  not  blame  my  surgi- 
cal work.  This  quick  decreptitude  occurs 
invariably,  even  without  the  intervention  of 
my  scissors. 

Six,  in  better  condition,  have  gone  off. 
Will  they  return  to  the  bait  that  attracted 
them  yesterday?  Though  deprived  of  their 
antennae,  will  they  be  able  to  find  the  cage, 
now  put  in  another  place,  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  its  original  position? 

The  cage  is  standing  in  the  dark,  almost 
in  the  open  air.  From  time  to  time,  I  go  out 
with  a  lantern  and  a  Butterfly-net.  Each 
visitor  is  captured,  examined,  catalogued  and 
forthwith  let  loose  in  an  adjoining  room,  of 


The  Great  Peacock 

which  I  close  the  door.  This  gradual  elimina- 
tion will  enable  me  to  tell  the  exact  number, 
with  no  risk  of  counting  the  same  Moth  more 
than  once.  Moreover,  the  temporary  gaol, 
which  is  spacious  and  bare,  will  in  no  way  en- 
danger the  prisoners,  who  will  find  a  quiet  re- 
treat there  and  plenty  of  room.  I  shall  take 
similar  precautions  during  my  subsequent  in- 
vestigations. 

At  half  past  ten  no  more  arrive.  The  sit- 
ting is  over.  In  all,  twenty-five  males  have 
been  caught,  of  whom  only  one  was  without 
antennae.  Therefore,  of  the  six  on  whom  I 
operated  yesterday  and  who  were  hale 
enough  to  leave  my  study  and  go  back  to  the 
fields,  one  alone  has  returned  to  the  bell-jar. 
It  is  a  poor  result,  on  which  I  dare  not  rely 
when  it  comes  to  asserting  or  denying  that 
the  antennae  play  a  guiding  part.  We  must 
begin  all  over  again,  on  a  larger  scale. 

Next  morning  I  pay  a  visit  to  the  prisoners 
of  the  day  before.  What  I  see  is  not  en- 
couraging. Many  are  spread  out  on  the 
floor,  almost  lifeless.  Several  of  them  give 
hardly  a  sign  of  life  when  I  take  them  in  my 
fingers.  What  can  I  hope  from  these  crip- 
ples? Still,  let  us  try.  Perhaps  they  will 

255 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

recover  their  vigour  when  the  time  comes  to 
dance  the  lovers'  round. 

The  twenty-four  new  ones  undergo  ampu- 
tation of  the  antennae.  The  old,  hornless  one 
is  left  out  of  count,  as  dying  or  close  to  it. 
Lastly,  the  prison-door  is  left  open  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day.  He  who  will  may 
leave  the  room,  he  who  can  shall  join  in  the 
evening  festival.  In  order  to  put  such  as  go 
out  to  the  test  of  searching  for  the  bride,  the 
cage,  which  they  would  be  sure  to  notice  on 
the  threshold,  is  once  more  removed.  I  shift 
it  to  a  room  in  the  opposite  wing,  on  the 
ground-floor.  The  access  to  this  room  is  of 
course  left  free. 

Of  the  twenty- four  deprived  of  their  an- 
tennae, only  sixteen  go  outside.  Eight  re- 
main, powerless  to  move.  They  will  soon  die 
where  they  are.  Out  of  the  sixteen  who  have 
left,  how  many  are  there  that  return  to  the 
cage  in  the  evening?  Not  one!  I  sit  up  to 
capture  just  seven,  all  newcomers,  all  sport- 
ing feathers.  This  result  would  seem  to 
show  that  the  amputation  of  the  antennae  is  a 
rather  serious  matter.  Let  us  not  draw  con- 
clusions yet:  a  doubt  remains  and  an  import- 
ant one. 

256 


The  Great  Peacock 

"A  nice  state  I'm  in !"  said  Mouflard,  the 
Bull-pup,  when  his  pitiless  breeder  had  docked 
his  ears.  "How  dare  I  show  my  face  before 
the  other  Dogs?" 

Can  it  be  that  my  Moths  entertain  Master 
Mouflard's  apprehensions?  Once  deprived  of 
their  fine  plumes,  dare  they  no  longer  appear 
amidst  their  rivals  and  a-wooing  go?  Is 
it  bashfulness  on  their  part  or  lack  of 
guidance?  Or  might  it  not  rather  be  ex- 
haustion after  a  wait  that  exceeds  the 
duration  of  an  ephemeral  flame?  Experi- 
ment shall  tell  us. 

On  the  fourth  evening,  I  take  fourteen 
Moths,  all  new  ones,  and  imprison  them,  as 
they  arrive,  in  a  room  where  I  intend  them  to 
pass  the  night.  Next  morning,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  their  daytime  immobility,  I  re- 
move a  little  of  the  fur  from  the  centre  of 
their  corselet.  The  silky  fleece  comes  off  so 
easily  that  this  slight  tonsure  does  not  in- 
convenience the  insects  at  all ;  it  deprives  them 
of  no  organ  which  may  be  necessary  to  them 
later,  when  the  time  comes  to  find  the  cage. 
It  means  nothing  to  the  shorn  ones;  to  me  it 
means  the  unmistakable  sign  that  the  callers 
have  repeated  their  visit. 

257 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar  . 

This  time  there  are  no  weaklings  incapable 
of  flight.  At  night,  the  fourteen  shaven 
Moths  escape  into  the  open.  Of  course  the 
place  of  the  cage  is  once  more  changed.  In 
two  hours,  I  capture  twenty  Moths,  including 
two  tonsured  ones,  no  more.  Of  those  who 
lost  their  antennas  two  days  ago,  not  one  puts 
in  an  appearance.  Their  nuptial  time  is  over 
for  good  and  all. 

Only  two  return  out  of  the  fourteen 
marked  with  a  bald  patch.  Why  do  the 
twelve  others  hang  back,  although  supplied 
with  what  we  have  assumed  to  be  their  guides, 
their  antennary  plumes?  Why  again  that 
formidable  list  of  defaulters,  which  we  find 
nearly  always  after  a  night  of  sequestration? 
I  perceive  but  one  reply:  the  Great  Peacock 
is  quickly  worn  out  by  the  ardours  of  pairing- 
time. 

With  a  view  to  his  wedding,  the  one  and 
only  object  of  his  life,  the  Moth  is  gifted 
with  a  wonderful  prerogative.  He  is  able  to 
discover  the  object  of  his  desire  in  spite  of 
distance,  obstacles  and  darkness.  For  two  or 
three  evenings,  he  is  allowed  a  few  hours 
wherein  to  indulge  his  search  and  his  amor- 
ous exploits.  If  he  cannot  avail  himself  of 
258 


The  Great  Peacock 

them,  all  is  over:  the  most'exact  of  compasses 
fails,  the  brightest  of  lamps  expires.  What  is 
the  use  of  living  after  that  ?  Stoically  we  with- 
draw into  a  corner  and  sleep  our  last  sleep, 
which  is  the  end  of  our  illusions  and  of  our 
woes  alike. 

The  Great  Peacock  becomes  a  Moth  only 
in  order  to  perpetuate  his  species.  He  knows 
nothing  of  eating.  While  so  many  others, 
jolly  companions  one  and  all,  flit  from  flower 
to  flower,  unrolling  the  spiral  of  their  pro- 
boscis and  dipping  it  into  the  honeyed  cups, 
he,  the  incomparable  faster,  wholly  freed 
from  the  bondage  of  the  belly,  has  no  thought 
of  refreshment.  His  mouth-parts  are  mere 
rudiments,  vain  simulacra,  not  real  organs 
capable  of  performing  their  functions.  Not 
a  sup  enters  his  stomach :  a  glorious:  privilege, 
save  that  it  involves  a  brief  existence.  The 
lamp  needs  its  drop  of  oil,  if  it.  is  not  to  be 
extinguished.  The  Great  Peacock  renounces 
that  drop,  but  at  the  same  time  he  renounces 
long  life.  Two  or  three  eveninps.  jnsi-  firpe 
enough  to  allow  the  couple  to  meet,  and  that 
is  all:  the  big  Moth  has  lived. 

Then  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  staying 
away  of  those  who  have  lost  their  antennae? 

259 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Does  it  show  that  the  absence  of  these  organs 
has  made  them  incapable  of  finding  the  wire 
bell  in  which  the  prisoner  awaits  them?  Not 
at  all.  Like  the  shorn  ones,  whose  operation 
has  left  them  uninjured,  they  prove  only  that 
their  time  is  up.  Whether  maimed  or  intact, 
they  are  unfit  for  duty  because  of  their  age; 
and  their  non-return  is  valueless  as  evidence. 
For  lack  of  the  time  necessary  for  experi- 
menting, the  part  played  by  the  antennae  es- 
capes us.  Doubtful  it  was  and  doubtful  it 
remains. 

My  caged  prisoner  lives  for  eight  days. 
Every  evening  she  draws  for  my  benefit  a 
swarm  of  visitors,  in  varying  numbers,  now 
to  one  part  of  the  house,  now  to  another,  as 
I  please.  I  catch  them,  as  they  come,  with 
the  net  and  transfer  them,  the  moment  they 
are  captured,  to  a  closed  room,  in  which  they 
spend  the  night.  Next  morning,  I  mark  them 
with  a  tonsure  on  the  thorax. 

The  aggregate  of  the  visitors  during  those 
eight  evenings  amounts  to  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  an  astounding  number  when  I  consider 
how  hard  I  had  to  seek  during  the  following 
two  years  to  collect  the  materials  necessary 
for  continuing  these  observations.  Though 
260 


The  Great  Peacock 

not  impossible  to  find  in  my  near  neighbour- 
hood, the  cocoons  of  the  Great  Peacock  are 
at  least  very  rare,  for  old  almond-trees,  on 
which  the  caterpillars  live,  are  scarce  in  these 
parts.  For  two  winters  I  visited  every  one  of 
those  decayed  trees  at  the  lower  part  of  the 
trunk,  under  the  tangle  of  hard  grasses  in 
which  they  are  clad,  and  time  after  time  I 
returned  empty-handed.  Therefore  my  hun- 
dred and  fifty  Moths  came  from  afar, 
from  very  far.  within  a  radius  of  per- 
haps a  mile  and  a  half  or  mpre.  How 
did  they  know  of  what  was  happening  in  my 
study? 

The  perceptive  faculties  can  receive  inform- 
ation from  a  distance  by  means  of  three 
agents:  light,  sound  and  smell.  Is  it  permis- 
sible to  speak  of  vision  in  this  instance?  I 
will  readily  admit  that  sight  guides  the  visit- 
ors once  they  have  passed  through  the  open 
window.  But  before  that,  in  the  mystery  out 
of  doors!  It  would  not  be  enough  to  grant 
them  the  fabulous  eye  of  the  Lynx,  which  was 
supposed  to  see  through  walls;  we  should 
have  to  admit  a  keenness  of  sight  which  could 
be  exercised  miles  away.  It  is  useless  to  dis- 
cuss anything  so  outrageous;  let  us  pass  on. 
261 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Sound  is  likewise  out  of  the  question.  The 
great  fat  Moth,  capable  of  sending  a  sum- 
mons to  such  a  distance,  is  mute  eVen  to  the 
most  acute  hearing.  It  is  just  possible  that 
she  possesses  delicate  vibrations,  passionate 
quivers,  which  might  perhaps  be  perceptible 
with  the  aid  of  an  extremely  sensitive  micro- 
phone; but  remember  that  the  visitors  have 
to  be  informed  at  considerable  distances, 
thousands  of  yards  away.  Under  these  con- 
ditions, we  cannot  waste  time  thinking  of 
acoustics.  .That  would  be  to  set  silence  the 
task  of  waking  the  surrounding  air. 

There  remains  the  sense  of  smell.  In  the 
domain  of  our  senses,  scent,  better  than  any- 
thing else,  would  more  or  less  explain  the  on- 
rush of  the  Moths,  even  though  they  do  not 
find  the  bait  that  allures  them  until  after  a 
certain  amount  of  hesitation.  Are  there,  in 
point  of  fact,  effluvia  similar  to  what  we  call 
odour,  effluvia  of  extreme  subtlety,  absolutely 
imperceptible  to  ourselves  and  yet  capable  of 
impressing  a  sense  of  smell  better-endowed 
than  ours ?  There  is  a  very  simple  experiment 
to  be  made.  It  is  a  question  of  masking  those 
effluvia,  of  stifling  them  under  a  powerful  and 
persistent  odour,  which  masters  the  olfactory 
262 


The  Great  Peacock 

sense  entirely.    The  too-strong  scent  will  neu- 
tralize the  very  faint  one. 

I  begin  by  sprinkling  naphthaline  in  the 
room  where  the  males  will  be  received  this 
evening.  Also,  in  the  bell-jar,  beside  the  fe- 
male, I  lay  a  big  capsule  full  of  the  same  stuff. 
When  the  visiting-hour  comes,  I  have  only  to 
stand  in  the  doorway  of  the  room  to  get  a 
distinct  smell  of  gas-works.  My  artifice  fails. 
The  Moths  arrive  as  usual,  they  enter  the 
room,  pass  through  its  tarry  atmosphere  and 
make  for  the  cage  with  as  much  certainty  of 
direction  as  though  in  unscented  surroundings. 

My  confidence  in  the  olfactory  explanation 
is  shaken.  Besides,  I  am  now  unable  to  go 
on.  Worn  out  by  her  sterile  wait,  my  pri- 
soner dies  on  the  ninth  day,  after  laying  her 
unfertilized  eggs  on  the  wirework  of  the 
cage.  In  the  absence  of  a  subject  of  experi- 
ment, there  is  no  more  to  be  done  until  next 
year. 

This  time  I  shall  take  my  precautions,  I 
shall  lay  in  a  stock  so  as  to  be  able  to  repeat 
as  often  as  I  wish  the  experiments  which  I 
have  already  tried  and  those  which  I  am  con- 
templating. To  work,  then ;  and  that  with- 
out delay. 

263 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

In  the  summer,  I  proclaim  myself  a  buyer 
of  caterpillars  at  a  sou  apiece.  The  offer  ap- 
peals to  some  urchins  in  the  neighbourhood, 
my  usual  purveyors.  On  Thursdays,  emanci- 
pated from  the  horrors  of  parsing,1  they  scour 
the  fields,  find  the  fat  caterpillar  from  time 
to  time  and  bring  him  to  me  clinging  to  the 
end  of  a  stick.  They  dare  not  touch  him, 
poor  mites;  they  are  staggered  at  my  audacity 
when  I  take  him  in  my  fingers  as  they  might 
take  the  familiar  Silk-worm. 

Reared  on  almond-tree  branches,  my  me- 
nagerie in  a  few  days  supplies  me  with  mag- 
nificent cocoons.  In  the  winter,  assiduous 
searches  at  the  foot  of  the  fostering  tree  com- 
plete my  collection.  Friends  interested  in  my 
enquiries  come  to  my  assistance.  In  short,  by 
dint  of  trouble,  much  running  about,  commer- 
cial bargains  and  not  a  few  scratches  from 
brambles,  I  am  the  possessor  of  an  assortment 
of  cocoons,  of  which  twelve,  bulkier  and 
heavier  than  the  others,  tell  me  that  they  be- 
long to  females. 

A  disappointment  awaits  me,  for  May  ar- 
rives, a  fickle  month  which  brings  to  naught 

1  Thursday  is  the  weekly  holiday  in  French  schools. — 
Translator's   Note. 

264 


The  Great  Peacock 

my  preparations,  the  cause  of  so  much  anxiety. 
We  have  winter  back  again.  The  mistral 
howls,  tears  the  budding  leaves  from  the 
plane-trees  and  strews  the  ground  with  them. 
It  is  as  cold  as  in  December.  We  have  to 
light  the  fires  again  at  night  and  resume  the 
thick  clothes  which  we  were  beginning  to 
leave  off. 

My  Moths  are  sorely  tried.  They  hatch 
late  and  are  torpid.  Around  my  wire  cages, 
in  which  the  females  wait,  one  to-day,  another 
to-morrow,  according  to  the  order  of  their 
birth,  few  males  or  none  come  from  the  out- 
side. And  yet  there  are  some  close  at  hand, 
for  the  plumed  gallants  resulting  from  my 
harvest  were  placed  out  in  the  garden  as  soon 
as  they  were  hatched  and  recognized.  Whe- 
ther near  neighbours  or  strangers  from  afar, 
very  few  arrive;  and  these  are  only  half- 
hearted. They  enter  for  a  moment,  then  dis- 
appear and  do  not  return.  The  lovers  have 
grown  cold. 

It  is  also  possible  that  the  low  temperature 
is  unfavourable  to  the  tell-tale  effluvia,  which 
might  well  be  enhanced  by  the  wrarmth  and 
decreased  by  the  cold,  as  happens  with  scents. 
My  year  is  lost.  Oh,  what  laborious  work  is 
265 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

this  experimenting  at  the  mercy  of  the  sud- 
den changes  and  deceptions  of  a  short  season  ! 

I  begin  all  over  again,  for  the  third  time. 
I  rear  caterpillars,  I  scour  the  country  in 
search  of  cocoons.  When  May  returns,  I  am 
suitably  provided.  The  weather  is  fine  and 
responds  to  my  hopes.  I  once  more  see  the 
incursions  which  had  struck  me  so  powerfully 
at  the  beginning,  at  the  time  of  the  historic 
invasion  which  first  led  to  my  researches. 

Nightly  the  visitors  turn  up,  in  squads  of 
twelve,  twenty  or  more.  The  female,  a  lusty, 
big-bellied  matron,  clings  firmly  to  the  trellis- 
work  of  the  cage.  She  makes  no  movement, 
gives  not  so  much  as  a  flutter  of  the  wings, 
seems  indifferent  to  what  is  going  on.  Nor 
is  there  any  odour,  so  far  as  the  most  sensitive 
nostrils  in  the  household  can  judge,  nor  any 
rustle  perceptible  to  the  most  delicate  hearing 
among  my  family,  all  of  whom  are  called  in 
to  bear  evidence.  In  motionless  contempla- 
tion she  waits. 

The  others,  in  twos  or  threes  or  more,  flop 
down  upon  the  dome  of  the  cage,  run  about 
it  briskly  in  every  direction,  lash  it  with  the 
tips  of  their  wings  in  continual  movement. 
There  are  no  affrays  between  rivals.  With 
266 


The  Great  Peacock 

not  a  sign  of  jealousy  in  regard  to  the  other 
suitors,  each  does  his  utmost  to  enter  the  en- 
closure. Tiring  of  their  vain  attempts,  they 
fly  away  and  join  the  whirling  throng  of 
dancers.  Some,  giving  up  all  hope,  escape 
through  the  open  window;  fresh  arrivals  take 
their  places;  and,  on  the  top  of  the  cage,  un- 
til ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  attempts  to  ap- 
proach are  incessantly  renewed,  soon  to  be 
abandoned  and  as  soon  resumed. 

Every  evening  the  cage  is  moved  to  a  dif- 
ferent place.  I  put  it  on  the  north  side  and 
the  south,  on  the  groUnd-floor  and  the  first 
floor,  in  the  right  wing  and  fifty  yards  away 
in  the  left,  in  the  open  air  or  hidden  in  a  dis- 
tant room.  All  these  sudden  displacements, 
contrived  if  possible  to  put  the  seekers  off  the 
scent,  do  not  trouble  the  Moths  in  the  least. 
I  waste  my  time  and  ingenuity  in  trying  to  de- 
ceive them. 

Recollection  of  places  plays  no  part  here. 
Yesterday,  for  instance,  the  female  was 
installed  in  a  certain  room.  The  feathered 
males  came  fluttering  thither  for  a  couple  of 
hours;  several  even  spent  the  night  there. 
Next  day,  at  sunset,  when  I  move  the  cage,  all 
are  out  of  doors.  Ephemeral  though  they  be, 
267 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

the  newest  comers  are  ready  to  repeat  their 
nocturnal  expeditions  a  second  time  and  a 
third.  Where  will  they  go  first,  these  vete- 
rans of  a  day? 

They  know  all  about  the  meeting-place  of 
yesterday.  One  is  inclined  to  think  that  they 
will  go  back  to  it,  guided  by  memory,  and 
that,  finding  nothing  left,  they  will  proceed 
elsewhither  to  continue  their  investigations. 
But  no :  contrary  to  my  expectations,  they  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Not  one  reappears  in  the 
place  which  was  so  thickly  crowded  last  night; 
not  one  pays  even  a  short  visit.  The  room  is 
recognized  as  deserted,  without  the  prelimi- 
nary enquiry  which  recollection  would  seem 
to  demand.  A  more  positive  guide  than  me- 
mory summons  them  elsewhere. 

Until  now  the  female  has  been  left  exposed, 
under  the  meshes  of  a  wire  gauze.  The  visit- 
ors, whose  eyes  are  used  to  piercing  the  black- 
est gloom,  can  see  her  by  the  vague  light  of 
what  to  us  is  darkness.  What  will  happen  if 
I  imprison  her  under  an  opaque  cover?  Ac- 
cording to  its  nature,  will  not  this  cover  either 
set  free  or  arrest  the  tell-tale  effluvia  ? 

Physical  science  is  to-day  preparing  to 
give  us  wireless  telegraphy,  by  means  of  the 
368 


The  Great  Peacock 

Hertzian  waves.  Can  the  Great  Peacock 
have  anticipated  our  efforts  in  this  direction? 
In  order  to  set  the  surrounding  air  in  motion 
and  to  inform  pretenders  miles  away,  can  the 
newly-hatched  bride  have  at  her  disposal  elec- 
tric or  magnetic  waves,  which  one  sort  of 
screen  would  arrest  and  another  let  through  ? 
In  a  word,  does  she,  in  her  own  manner,  em- 
ploy a  kind  of  wireless  telegraphy?  I  see 
nothing  impossible  in  this :  insects  are  accus- 
tomed to  invent  things  quite  as  wonderful. 

I  therefore  lodge  the  female  in  boxes  of 
various  characters.  Some  are  made  of  tin, 
some  of  cardboard,  some  of  wood.  All  are 
hermetically  closed,  are  even  sealed  with  stout 
putty.  I  also  use  a  glass  bell-jar  standing  on 
the  insulating  support  of  a  pane  of  glass. 

Well,  under  these  conditions  of  strict  clo- 
sing, never  a  male  arrives,  not  one,  however 
favourable  the  mildness  and  quiet  of  the  even- 
ing. No  matter  its  nature,  whether  of  metal 
or  glass,  of  wood  or  cardboard,  the  closed 
receptacle  forms  an  insuperable  obstacle  to  the 
effluvia  that  betray  the  captive's  whereabouts. 

A  layer  of  cotton  two  fingers  thick  gives  the 
same  result.  I  place  the  female  in  a  large  jar, 
tying  a  sheet  of  wadding  over  the  mouth  by 
269 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

way  of  a  lid.  This  is  enough  to  keep  the 
neighbourhood  in  ignorance  of  the  secrets  of 
my  laboratory.  No  male  puts  in  an  appear- 
ance. 

On  the  other  hand,  make  use  of  ill-closed, 
cracked  boxes,  or  even  hide  them  in  a  drawer, 
in  a  cupboard;  and,  notwithstanding  this 
added  mystery,  the  Moths  will  arrive  in  num- 
bers as  great  as  when  they  come  thronging 
to  the  trellised  cage  standing  in  full  view  on 
a  table.  I  have  retained  a  vivid  recollection 
of  an  evening  when  the  recluse  was  waiting 
in  a  hat-box  at  the  bottom  of  a  closed  wall- 
cupboard.  The  Moths  arrived,  went  to  the 
door,  struck  it  with  their  wings,  knocked  at 
it  to  express  their  wish  to  enter.  Passing  way- 
farers, coming  no  one  knows  whence  across 
the  fields,  they  well  knew  what  was  inside 
there,  behind  those  boards. 

We  must  therefore  reject  the  idea  of  any 
means  of  information  similar  to  that  of  wire- 
less telegraphy,  for  the  first  screen  set  up, 
whether  a  good  conductor  or  a  bad,  stops  the 
female's  signals  completely.  To  give  these  a 
free  passage  and  carry  them  to  a  distance,  one 
condition  is  indispensable :  the  receptacle  in 
which  the  female  is  contained  must  be  imper- 
270 


The  Great  Peacock 

fectly  closed,  so  as  to  establish  a  communica- 
tion between  the  inner  and  the  outer  air.  This 
brings  us  back  to  the  probability  of  an  odour, 
though  that  was  contradicted  by  my  experi- 
ment with  naphthaline. 

My  stock  of  cocoons  is  exhausted  and  the 
problem  is  still  obscure.  Shall  I  try  again 
another  year,  the  fourth?  I  abandon  the 
thought  for  the  following  reasons:  Moths 
that  mate  at  night  arc  difficult  to  observe  if  I 
want  to  watch  their  intimate  actions.  The 
gallant  certainly  needs  no  illuminant  to  attain 
his  ends;  but  my  feeble  human  powers  of  vis- 
ion cannot  dispense  with  one  at  night.  I  must 
have  at  least  a  candle,  which  is  often  extin- 
guished by  the  whirling  swarm.  A  lantern 
saves  us  from  these  sudden  eclipses;  but  its 
dim  light,  streaked  with  broad  shadows,  does 
not  suit  a  conscientious  observer  like  myself, 
who  wants  to  see  and  to  see  clearly. 

Xor  is  this  all.  The  light  of  a  lamp  diverts 
the  Moths  from  their  object,  distracts  them 
from  their  business  and,  if  persistent,  gravely 
compromises  the  success  of  the  evening.  The 
visitors  no  sooner  enter  the  room  than  they 
make  a  wild  rush  for  the  flame,  singe  their 
fluff  in  it  and  thenceforth,  frightened  by  the 
271 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

scorching  received,  cease  to  be  trustworthy 
witnesses.  When  they  are  not  burnt,  when 
they  are  kept  at  a  distance  by  a  glass  chimney, 
they  perch  as  close  as  they  can  to  the  light 
and  there  stay,  hypnotized. 

One  evening,  the  female  was  in  the  dining- 
room,  on  a  table  facing  the  open  window.  A 
lighted  paraffin-lamp,  with  a  large  white- 
enamel  shade,  was  hanging  from  the  ceiling. 
Two  of  the  arrivals  alighted  on  the  dome  of 
the  cage  and  fussed  around  the  prisoner; 
seven  others,  after  greeting  her  as  they  passed, 
made  for  the  lamp,  circled  about  it  a  little  and 
then,  fascinated  bv  the  radiant  glory  of  the 
opal  cone,  perched  on  it.  motionless,  under 
the  shade.  Already  the  children's  hands  were 
raised  to  seize  them. 

"Don't,"  I  said.  "Leave  them  alone.  Let 
us  be  hospitable  and  not  disturb  these  pilgrims 
to  the  tabernacle  of  light." 

All  that  evening,  not  one  of  the  seven 
budged.  Next  morning,  they  were  still  there. 
The  intoxication  of  light  had  made  them  for- 
get the  intoxication  of  love. 

With  creatures  so  madly  enamoured  of  the 
radiant  flame,  precise  and  prolonged  experi- 
ment becomes  unfeasible  the  moment  the  ob- 


The  Great  Peacock 

server  requires  an  artificial  illuminant.  I  give 
up  the  Great  Peacock  and  his  nocturnal  nup- 
tials. I  want  a  Moth  with  different  habits, 
equally  skilled  in  keeping  conjugal  appoint- 
ments, but  performing  in  the  day-time. 

Before  continuing  with  a  subject  that  fulfils 
these  conditions,  let  us  drop  chronological  or- 
der for  a  moment  and  say  a  few  words  about 
a  late-comer  who  arrived  after  I  had  com- 
pleted my  enquiries,  I  mean  the  Lesser  Pea- 
cock (Attacus  pavonia  minor,  LiN.J.  Some- 
body brought  me,  I  don't  know  where  from, 
a  magnificent  cocoon  loosely  wrapped  in  an 
ample  white-silk  envelope.  Out  of  this  cover- 
ing, with  its  thick,  irregular  folds,  it  was  easy 
to  extract  a  case  similar  in  shape  to  the  Great 
Peacock's,  but  a  good  deal  smaller.  The 
fore-end,  worked  into  the  fashion  of  an  eel- 
trap  by  means  of  free  and  converging  fibres, 
which  prevent  access  to  the  dwelling  while 
permitting  egress  without  a  breach  of  the 
Avails,  indicated  a  kinswoman  of  the  big  noc- 
turnal Moth;  the  silkbore  the  spinner's  mark. 

And,  in  point  of  fact,  towards  the  end  of 
March,  on  the  morning  of  Palm  Sunday,  the 
cocoon  with  the  eel-trap  formation  provides 
me  with  a  female  of  the  Lesser  Peacock, 

273 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

whom  I  at  once  seclude  under  a  wire-gauze 
bell  in  my  study.  I  open  the  window  to  allow 
the  event  to  be  made  known  all  over  the  dis- 
trict; I  want  the  visitors,  if  any  come,  to  find 
free  entrance.  The  captive  grips  the  wires 
and  does  not  move  for  a  week. 

A  gorgeous  creature  is  my  prisoner,  in  he-- 
brow^ velvet  streaked  with  wavy  lines.  She 
has  white  fur  around  her  neck;  a  speck  of  car- 
mine at  the  tip  of  the  upper  wings;  and  four 
large,  eye-shaped  spots,  in  which  black,  white, 
red  and  yellow-ochre  are  grouped  in  concen- 
tric crescents.  The  dress  is  very  like  that  of 
the  Great  Peacock,  but  less  dark  in  colouring. 
I  have  seen  this  Moth,  so  remarkable  for  size 
and  costume,  three  or  four  times  in  my  life. 
It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  first  saw  the 
cocoon.  The  male  I  have  never  seen.  I  only- 
know  that,  according  to  the  books,  he  is  half 
the  size  of  the  female  and  of  a  brighter  and 
more  florid  colour,  with  orange-yellow  on  the 
lower  wings. 

Will  he  come,  the  unknown  spark,  the 
plume-wearer  on  whom  I  have  never  set  eyes, 
so  rare  does  he  appear  to  be  in  my  part  of  the 
country?  In  his  distant  hedges  wJll  he  receive 
news  of  the  bride  that  awaits  him  on  my  study 

274 


The  Great  Peacock 

table?  I  venture  to  feel  sure  of  it;  and  I  am 
right.  Here  he  comes,  even  sooner  than  I 
expected. 

On  the  stroke  of  noon,  as  we  were  sitting 
down  to  table,  little  Paul  who  is  late  owing 
to  his  eager  interest  in  what  is  likely  to  hap- 
pen, suddenly  runs  up  to  us,  his  cheeks  aglow. 
In  his  fingers  flutters  a  pretty  Moth,  a  Moth 
caught  that  moment  hovering  in  front  of  my 
study.  Paul  shows  me  his  prize;  his  eyes  ask 
an  unspoken  question. 

"Hullo!"  I  say.  "This  is  the  very  pilgrim 
we  were  expecting.  Let's  fold  up  our  nap- 
kins and  go  and  see  what's  happening.  We 
can  dine  later." 

Dinner  is  forgotten  in  the  presence  of  the 
wonders  that  are  taking  place.  With  incon- 
ceivable punctuality,  the  plume-wearers  hasten 
to  answer  the  captive's  magic  call.  They  ar- 
rive one  by  one,  with  a  tortuous  flight.  All 
of  them  come  from  the  north.  This  detail 
has  its  significance.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  du- 
ring the  past  week  we  have  experienced  a 
fierce  return  of  winter.  The  north  wind  has 
been  blowing  a  gale,  killing  the  imprudent 
almond-blossoms.  It  was  one  of  those  fero- 
cious storms  which,  as  a  rule,  usher  in  the 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

spring  in  our  part  of  the  world.  To- 
day the  temperature  has  suddenly  grown 
milder,  but  the  wind  is  still  blowing  from  the 
north. 

Now  at  this  first  visit  all  the  Moths  hur- 
rying to  the  prisoner  enter  the  enclosure  from 
the  north;  they  follow  the  movement  of  the 
air;  not  one  beats  against  it.  If  their  compass 
were  a  sense  of  smell  similar  to  our  own,  if 
they  were  guided  by  odoriferous  particles  dis- 
solved in  the  air,  they  ought  to  arrive  from 
the  opposite  direction,  ^f  they  came  from  the 
south,  we  might  believe  them  to  be  informed 
by  effluvia  carried  by  the  wind;  coming  as  they 
do  from  the  north,  through  the  mistral,  that 
mighty  sweeper  of  the  atmosphere,  how  can 
we  suppose  them  to  have  perceived,  at  a  great 
distance,  what  we  call  a  smell?  This  reflux 
of  scented  atoms  in  a  direction  contrary  to  the 
aerial  current  seems  to  me  inadmissible. 

For  a  couple  of  hours,  in  radiant  sun- 
shine, the  visitors  come  and  go  outside  the 
front  of  the  study.  Most  of  them  search 
for  a  long  while,  exploring  the  wall,  flit- 
ting along  the  ground.  To  see  their  hesita- 
tion, one  would  think  that  they  were  at  a  loss 
to  discover  the  exact  place  of  the  bait  that  at- 
276 


The  Great  Peacock 

tracts  them.  Though  they  have  come  from 
very  far  without  mistake,  they  seem  uncertain 
of  their  bearings  once  they  are  on  the  spot. 
Nevertheless,  sooner  or  later  they  enter  the 
room  and  pay  their  respects  to  the  captive, 
without  much  importunity.  At  two  o'clock  all 
is  over.  Ten  Moths  have  heen  here. 

All  through  the  week,  each  time  at  noon- 
day, when  the  light  is  at  its  brightest,  Moths 
arrive,  but  in  decreasing  numbers.  The  total 
is  nearly  forty.  I  see  no  reason  to  repeat 
experiments  which  could  add  nothing  to  what 
I  already  know;  and  I  confine  myself  to  sta- 
ting two  facts.  ^_  In  the  first  place,  the  Lesser 
Peacock  is  a  day  insect,  that  is  to  say,  he  cele- 
brates his  wedding  in  the  brilliant  light  of  the 
middle  of  the  day.  He  needs  radiant  sun- 
shine. The  Great  Peacock,  on  the  contrary, 
whom  he  so  closely  resembles  in  his  adult  form 
and  in  the  work  which  he  does  as  a  caterpillar, 
jg£iiires  the  dusk  of  the  early  hours  of  the 
night.^  Let  him  who  can  explain  this  strange 
contrast  of  habits. 

In  the  second  place,  a  powerful  air-current, 

sweeping  the  other  way  any  particles  capable 

of  instructing  the  sense  of  smell,   does  not 

prevent  the  Moths'  arriving  from  a  direction 

277 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

opposite  to  that  of  the  odoriferous  flux,  as 
our  physics  imagine  it. 

If  I  am  to  go  on  with  my  observations,  I 
want  a  day  Moth;  not  the  Lesser  Peacock, 
who  made  his  appearance  too  late,  at  a  time 
when  I  had  nothing  to  ask  him,  but  another, 
no  matter  whom,  provided  that  he  be  quick 
at  discovering  nuptial  feasts.  Shall  I  find 
this  Moth? 


278 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  BANDED  MONK 

YES,  I  shall  find  him;  indeed  I  have  him 
already.  A  little  chap  of  seven,  with  a 
wideawake  face  that  doesn't  get  washed  every 
day,  bare  feet  and  a  pair  of  tattered  breeches 
held  up  by  a  bit  of  string,  a  boy  who  comes 
regularly  to  supply  the  house  with  turnips  and 
tomatoes,  arrives  one  morning  carrying  his 
basket  of  vegetables.  After  the  few  sous  due 
to  his  mother  for  the  greens  have  been 
counted  one  by  one  into  his  hand,  he  produces 
from  his  pocket  something  which  he  found 
the  day  before,  beside  a  hedge,  while  picking 
grass  for  the  Rabbits: 

"And  what  about  this?"  he  asks,  holding 
the  thing  out  to  me.  "What  about  this?  Will 
you  have  it?" 

"Yes,  certainly  I'll  have  it.  Try  and  find 
me  some  more,  as  many  as  you  can,  and  I'll 
promise  you  plenty  of  rides  on  the  roundabout 
on  Sunday.  Meanwhile,  my  lad,  here's  a 
penny  for  you.  Don't  make  a  mistake  when 
you  give  in  your  accounts;  put  it  somewhere 

279 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

where  you  won't  mix  it  up  with  the  turnip- 
money." 

Dazzled  with  delight  at  the  sight  of  so 
much  wealth,  my  little  ragamuffin  promises  to 
search  with  a  will,  already  seeing  visions  of  a 
fortune  to  be  his. 

When  he  has  gone,  I  examine  the  thing. 
It  is  worth  while.  It  is  a  handsome  cocoon, 
blunt-shaped,  not  at  all  unlike  the  product  of 
our  Silk-worm  nurseries,  of  a  firm  consistency 
and  a  tawny  colour.  The  cursory  informa- 
tion which  I  have  picked  up  from  books  of 
reference  makes  me  almost  certain  that  it  is 
the  Bombyx  of  the  Oak,  the  Oak  Eggar.  If 
this  is  so,  what  luck !  I  shall  be  able  to  con- 
tinue my  observations  and  perhaps  complete 
what  the  Great  Peacock  began  to  show  me. 

The  Oak  Eggar  is,  in  fact,  a  classic;  there 
is  not  an  entomological  treatise  but  speaks  of 
his  exploits  in  the  wedding-season.  They  tell 
us  how  a  mother  hatches  in  captivity,  inside  a 
room  and  even  hidden  in  a  box.  She  is  far 
away  from  the  country,  amid  the  tumult  of  a 
big  town.  The  event  is  nevertheless  divulged 
to  those  whom  it  concerns  in  the  woods  and 
the  meadows.  Guided  by  some  inconceivable 
compass,  the  males  arrive,  hastening  from  the 
280 


The  Banded  Monk 

jistant  fields:  they  go  to  the  hoxf  tap  at  it,  fly 
anr!  ]TP-linfl  '*- 


I  had  read  of  these  marvels;  but  seeing, 
seeing  with  one's  own  eyes,  and  at  the  same 
time  experimenting  a  little  is  quite  another 
matter.  What  does  my  penny  purchase  hold 
in  store  for  me?  Will  the  famous  Bombyx 
emerge  from  it? 

Let  us  call  her  by  her  other  name  :  the 
Banded  Monk.  This  unusual  name  of  Monk 
is  suggested  by  the  male's  dress:  a  monk's 
frock  of  a  modest  rusty  brown.  But  in  this 
case  the  stuff  is  a  delicious  velvet,  with  a  pale 
transversal  band  and  a  little  white,  eye-shaped 
dot  on  the  front  wings. 

The  Banded  Monk  is  not,  in  my  region,  a 
common  Moth  whom  we  are  likely  to  catch 
if  the  fancy  takes  us  to  go  out  with  a  net  at 
the  proper  season.  I  have  never  seen  it  about 
the  village,  especially  not  in  my  lonely  enclo- 
sure, during  all  the  twenty  years  that  I  have 
spent  here.  I  am  not  a  fervent  hunter,  I  ad- 
mit; the  collector's  dead  insect  interests  me 
very  little;  I  want  it  alive,  in  the  full  exercise 
of  its  faculties.  But  I  make  up  for  the  ab- 
sence of  the  collector's  zeal  by  an  attentive  eye 
for  all  that  enlivens  the  fields.  A  Moth  so 
281 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

remarkable  in  size  and  costume  would  cert- 
ainly not  have  escaped  me  had  I  met  him. 

The  little  seeker  whom  I  had  caught  so 
nicely  with  a  promise  of  the  roundabout  never 
made  a  second  find.  For  three  years  I  re- 
quisitioned friends  and  neighbours,  especially 
the  youngsters,  those  sharp-eyed  scrapers  of 
the  brushwood;  I  myself  scraped  a  great  deal 
under  masses  of  dead  leaves,  inspected  stone- 
heaps,  examined  hollow  tree-trunks.  My 
trouble  was  in  vain :  the  precious  cocoon  was 
nowhere  to  be  found.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
the  Banded  Monk  is  very  scarce  in  my  neigh- 
bourhood. The  importance  of  this  detail  will 
be  seen  when  the  time  comes. 

As  I  suspected,  my  solitary  cocoon  did  be- 
long to  the  famous  Moth.  On  the  2Oth 
of  August  there  emerges  a  female,  corpulent 
and  big-bellied,  attired  like  the  male,  but  in  a 
lighter  frock,  more  in  the  nankeen  style.  I 
establish  her  in  a  wire-gauze  bell-jar  in  the 
middle  of  my  study,  on  the  big  laboratory- 
table,  littered  with  books,  pots,  trays,  boxes, 
test-tubes  and  other  engines  of  science.  I 
have  described  the  setting  before:  it  is  the 
same  as  in  the  case  of  the  Great  Peacock.  The 
room  is  lighted  by  two  windows  looking  ou* 
282 


The  Banded  Monk 

on  the  garden.  One  is  closed,  the  other  is 
kept  open  day  and  night.  The  Moth  is  placed 
between  the  two,  in  the  shadow,  some  four 
or  five  yards  away. 

The  rest  of  the  day  and  the  following  day 
pass  without  anything  worth  mentioning. 
Hanging  by  her  claws  to  the  front  of  the  trel- 
liswork,  on  the  side  nearest  the  light,  the 
prisoner  is  motionless,  inert.  There  is  no 
waving  of  the  wings,  no  quivering  of  the  an- 
tenna?. Even  so  did  the  female  Great  Pea- 
cock behave. 

The  mother  Bombyx  matures ;  her  tender 
flesh  hardens.  By  some  process  of  which  our 
science  has  not  the  remotest  idea,  she  elabor- 
ates an  irresistible  bait  which  will  bring  call- 
ers flocking  to  her  from  the  four  corners  of 
the  heavens.  What  takes  place  in  that  fat 
body,  what  transformations  are  performed 
that  shall  presently  revolutionize  everything 
around?  Were  they  known  to  us,  the  Moth's 
nostrums  would  add  a  cubit  to  our  stature. 

On  the  third  day  the  bride  is  ready.  The 
festivities  burst  into  full  swing.  I  was  in  the 
garden,  already  despairing  of  success,  so  long 
were  things  delayed,  when,  at  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  in  very  hot  weather 
283 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

and  brilliant  sunshine,  I  saw  a  host  of  Moths 
gyrating  in  the  embrasure  of  the  open 
window. 

It  is  the  lovers  coming  to  call  upon  their 
sweetheart.  Some  are  just  leaving  the 
room,  others  going  in,  others  again  are 
perched  upon  the  wall,  resting  as  though 
jaded  after  a  long  journey.  I  see  some  ap- 
proaching in  the  distance,  over  the  walls,  over 
the  curtain  of  cypress-trees.  They  are  hurry- 
ing up  from  all  directions,  but  becoming  more 
and  more  rare.  I  missed  the  beginning  of  the 
reception;  and  the  guests  are  nearly  all  here. 

Let  us  go  upstairs.  This  time,  in  broad 
daylight,  without  losing  a  single  detail,  I  once 
more  witness  the  bewildering  spectacle  into 
which  the  great  night  Moth  initiated  me.  My 
study  is  filled  with  a  swarm  of  males,  whom  I 
estimate  at  a  glance  to  number  about  sixty,  as 
far  as  it  is  possible  to  make  a  count  in  this 
seething  mass.  After  circling  a  few  times 
round  the  cage,  several  go  to  the  open  wind- 
ow, but  return  again  forthwith  and  resume 
their  evolutions.  The  most  eager  perch  on 
the  cage,  hustle  and  trample  on  one  another, 
fighting  for  the  good  places.  Inside  the  bar- 
rier, the  captive  waits  impassively,  with  her 
284 


The  Banded  Monk 

great  paunch  hanging  against  the  wires.  She 
gives  not  a  sign  of  emotion  in  the  presence  of 
the  turbulent  throng. 

Going  in  or  going  out,  fussing  round  the 
cage  or  flitting  through  the  room,  for  more 
than  three  hours  they  keep  up  their  frenzied 
saraband.  But  the  sun  is  sinking,  the  tem- 
perature becomes  a  little  cooler.  Chilled  like- 
wise is  the  ardour  of  the  Moths.  Many  go 
out  and  do  not  come  in  again.  Others  take 
up  their  positions  in  readiness  for  the  mor- 
row ;  they  settle  on  the  transoms  of  the  closed 
window,  as  the  Great  Peacocks  did.  The 
celebration  is  over  for  to-day.  It  will  cert- 
ainly be  renewed  to-morrow,  for  it  is  still 
without  result,  because  of  the  wires. 

But  alas,  to  my  great  dismay,  it  is  not  re- 
newed ;  and  this  through  my  own  fault !  Late 
in  the  day,  some  one  brings  me  a  Praying 
Mantis,  worthy  of  attention  because  of  her 
exceptionally  small  size.  Preoccupied  with 
the  events  of  the  afternoon,  without  thinking 
what  I  am  doing,  I  hastily  place  the  carnivor- 
ous insect  in  the  cage  that  holds  my  Bombyx. 
Not  for  a  moment  do  I  dream  that  this  co- 
habitation can  turn  out  ill.  The  Mantis  is 
such  a  little,  slender  thing;  the  other  is  so 

2*5 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

obese !  And  thus  I  entertained  no  apprehen- 
sions. 

Ah,  little  did  I  know  the  bloodthirsty  fury 
of  which  the  grapnelled  insect  is  capable ! 
Next  morning,  to  my  bitter  astonishment.  I 
find  the  tiny  Mantis  devouring  the  huge 
Moth.  The  head  and  the  front  part  of  the 
breast  have  already  disappeared.  Horrible 
creature !  What  a  disappointment  I  owe  to 
you!  Farewell  to  my  researches,  which  I 
had  cherished  in  my  imagination  all  night 
long;  not  for  three  years  shall  I  be 
able  to  resume  them,  for  lack  of  a  sub- 
ject. 

Bad  luck  must  not,  however,  make  us  for- 
get the  little  that  we  have  learnt.  At  one 
sitting,  some  sixty  males  came.  Consider- 
ing the  rarity  of  the  Monk  and  remember- 
ing the  years  of  fruitless  searches  conducted 
by  my  assistants  and  myself,  we  stand 
astounded  at  this  number.  With  a  female 
for  a  bait,  the  undiscoverable  has  suddenly 
become  a  multitude. 

Now  where  did  they  come  from  ?  From 
every  quarter  and  from  very  far,  beyond  a 
doubt.  During  my  years  of  exploration  of 
my  neighbourhood,  I  have  got  to  know  every 


The  Banded  Monk 

bush  in  it  and  every  heap  of  stones;  and  I  aru 
in  a  position  to  declare  that  there  are  no  Oak 
Eggars  there.  To  make  the  swarm  that  filled 
my  study,  the  whole  of  the  surrounding  dis- 
trict must  have  contributed,  from  this  side 
and  from  that,  within  a  radius  which  I  dare 
not  determine. 

Three  years  pass;  and  fortune  persistently 
entreated  at  last  grants  me  two  Monk- 
cocoons.  Towards  the  middle  of  August, 
both  of  them,  within  a  few  days  of  each  other, 
give  me  a  female.  This  is  a  piece  of  luck 
which  will  allow  me  to  vary  and  renew  my 
tests. 

I  quickly  repeat  the  experiments  which  have 
already  procured  me  a  most  positive  reply 
from  the  Great  Peacock.  The  pilgrim  of 
the  day  is  no  less  clever  than  the  pilgrim  of 
the  night.  He  baffles  all  my  tricks.  He  hast- 
ens infallibly  to  the  prisoner,  in  her  wire- 
gauze  cage,  in  whatever  part  of  the  house  the 
apparatus  be  installed;  he  is  able  to  discover 
her  hidden  in  a  cupboard;  he  guesses  her 
secret  presence  in  a  box  of  any  kind,  provided 
that  it  be  not  tightly  closed.  He  ceases  to 
come,  for  lack  of  information,  when  the 
casket  is  hermetically  sealed.  Thus  far  we 
287 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

see  merely   a   repetition   of  the   feats  of  the 
Great  Peacock. 

A  well-closed  box,  the  air  contained  in 
which  does  not  communicate  with  the  outer 
atmosphere,  leaves  the  Monk  in  complete  ig- 
norance of  the  prisoner's  whereabouts.  Xot 
one  arrives,  even  when  the  box  is  exposed  t'ur 
<£X^Z^H£-J2-£££_llLthe  window.  This  brings" 
.back,  more  urgently  than  ever,  the  idea  oT 
odoriferous  effluvia,  intransmissible  through  a 
wall  of  metal,  cardboard,  wood  or  glass,  no 
Charter  whictTT™ 


When  put  to  the  test,  the  great  night  Moth 
was  not  baffled  by  the  naphthaline,  whose  po- 
werful smell  ought,  to  my  thinking,  to  mask 
ultrasubtle  emanations,  imperceptible  to  any 
human  nostrils.  1  repeat  the  experiment  with 
the  Monk.  This  time  I  lavish  all  the  re- 
sources in  the  way  of  scents  and  stenches  that 
my  store  of  drugs  permits. 

I  place  the  saucers,  partly  inside  the  wire- 
gauze  cage,  the  female's  prison,  and  partly 
all  round  it,  in  a  continuous  circle.  Some  con- 
tain naphthaline,  others  oil  of  lavender, 
others  paraffin,  others,  lastly,  alkaline  sul- 
phurs smelling  of  rotten  eggs.  Short  of 
asphyxiating  the  prisoner,  I  can  do  no  more. 


The  Banded  Monk 

These  arrangements  are  made  in  the  morn 
ing,  so  that  the  room  may  be  thoroughly  satu- 
rated when  the  trysting-hour  arrives. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  study  has  become  an 
odious  laboratory  in  which  the  penetrating 
aroma  of  lavender-oil  and  the  foul  stench  of 
sulphuretted  hydrogen  predominate.  Remem- 
ber that  I  smoke  in  this  room  and  plentifully 
at  that.  Will  the  concentrated  odours  of  a 
gas-works,  a  smoker's  divan,  a  scent-shop, 
an  oil-well  and  a  chemical  factory  succeed  in 

jDutting  off  the  Monk? 

"  .  Not  at  all.  A  little  before  three,  the  Moths 
arrive,  as  numerous  as  ever.  They  go  to  the 
cage,  which  I  have  taken  pains  to  cover  with 
a  thick  kitchen-cloth,  so  as  to  increase  the  diffi- 
culty. Though  they  see  nothing  after  they 
have  entered,  though  they  are  steeped  in  a 
foreign  atmosphere  in  which  any  subtle  fra- 
grance should  have  been  annihilated,  they  fly 
towards  the  prisoner  and  try  to  get  at  her  by 
slipping  under  the  folds  of  the  cloth.  My 
artifices  are  fruitless. 

After  this  reverse,  so  definite  in  its  results, 

^wjlil'h  fep^atS  WhAt  my  naphthaline  experi- 
ment with  the  Great  Peacock  taught  me,  I 
ought,  logically  speaking,  to  give  up  the 

28Q 


The  Lite  of  the  Caterpillar 

theory  that  odorous  effluvia  serve  as  a  guide 
to  the  Moths  invited  to  the  nuptial  feast. 
That  I  did  not  do  so  was  due  to  a  casual  ob- 
servation. The  unexpected,  the  fortuitous, 
often  provides  us  with  one  of  those  surprises 
which  show  us  the  road  to  the  truth,  hitherto 
sought  in  vain. 

One  afternoon,  trying  to  discover  whether 
sight  plays  any  part  in  the  search,  once  that 
the  Moths  have  entered  the  room,  I  place  the 
female  in  a  glass  bell-jar  and  give  her  a  little 
oak-branch,  with  withered  leaves,  as  a  perch. 
The  apparatus  is  put  on  a  table,  opposite  the 
open  window.  On  entering,  the  Moths  can- 
not fail  to  see  the  prisoner,  standing  as  she 
does  where  they  are  bound  to  pass.  The  pan 
with  its  layer  of  sand,  in  which  the  female 
spent  the  previous  night  and  the  morning  un- 
der a  wire-gauze  cover,  is  in  my  way.  I  put 
it,  without  premeditation,  on  the  floor  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  in  a  corner  which  is 
only  dimly  lighted.  It  is  seven  yards  from 
the  window. 

The  result  of  these  preparations  upsets  all 

my  ideas.     Of  the  Moths  arriving,  none  stops 

at  the  glass  bell,  where  the  female  is  plainly 

visible,  in  the  full  light.     They  pass  by  with 

290 


The  Banded  Monk 

utter  indifference.  Not  a  glance  in  her  direc- 
tion, not  an  enquiry.  They  all  fly  right  to  the 
far  end  of  the  room,  to  the  dusky  corner 
where  I  placed  the  tray  and  the  cage.  They 
alight  on  the  trelliscd  top  and  explore  it  at 
length,  flapping  their  wings  and  hustling  one 
another  a  little.  All  the  afternoon,  until  sun- 
set, they  dance  around  the  deserted  dome  the 
same  saraband  to  which  the  actual  presence 
of  the  female  would  give  rise.  At  last  thev 
fly  away,  but  not  all  of  them.  There  are  per- 
sistent ones  who  refuse  to  go,  rooted  to  the 
spot  by  some  magic  attraction. 

A  strange  result  indeed :  my  Moths  hasten 
to  where  there  is  nothing,  take  their  stand 
there  and  will  not  be  dissuaded  by  the  re- 
peated warnings  of  their  eyes;  they  pass  with- 
out stopping  for  a  moment  by  the  bell-glass 
in  which  the  female  cannot  fail  to  be  per- 
ceived by  one  or  other  of  those  coming  and 
going.  Befooled  by  a  lure,  they  pay  no  at- 
tention to  the  real  thing. 

What  is  it  that  deceives  them?  The  whole 
of  the  night  before  and  all  this  morning,  the 
female  has  sojourned  under  the  wire-gauze 
cover,  either  hanging  to  the  trelliswork,  or 
resting  on  the  sand  in  the  pan.  Whatever 
291 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

she  touched,  above  all  with  her  fat  belly  ap- 
parently, has  become  impregnated,  as  the  re- 
sult of  long  contact,  with  certain  emanations. 
There  you  have  her  bait,  her  love-philtre; 
_tnere  you  have  what  revolutionizes  the  world 
of  Monks.  The  sand  retains  it  for  a  time  anth 
spreadnts  effluvia  around. 

It  is  smell  therefore  that  guides  the  Moths, 
that  gives  them  information  at  a  distance. 
DommateH  by  the' sense  of  smell,  they  take 
no  notice  of  what  their  eyes  tell  them;  they 
pass  by  the  glass  prison  in  which  their  lady- 
love is  now  interned ;  they  go  to  the  wires,  to 
the  sand,  on  which  the  magic  cruets  have  shed 
their  contents;  they  race  to  the  wilderness 
where  naught  remains  of  the  witch  but  the 
scented  evidence  of  her  sojourn. 

The  irresistible  philtre  takes  a  certain  time 
to  elaborate.  I  picture  it  as  an  exhalation 
which  is  gradually  given  off  and  saturates 
everything  that  touches  the  fat,  motionless 
creature.  When  the  glass  bell  stands  directly 
on  the  table  or,  better  still,  on  a  square  of 
glass,  the  communication  between  the  interior 
and  the  outer  air  is  insufficient;  and  the  males, 
perceiving  nothing  by  the  sense  of  smell,  keep 
away,  however  long  the  experiment  be  con- 
292 


The  Banded  Monk 

tinued.  At  the  actual  moment,  I  cannot  sub- 
stantiate this  non-transmission  through  a 
screen,  for,  even  if  I  establish  ample  com- 
munication, if  I  separate  the  bell  from  its  sup- 
port by  means  of  three  wedges,  the  Moths 
do  not  come  at  first,  however  many  there  may 
be  in  the  room.  But  wait  for  half  an  hour, 
more  or  less :  the  alembic  of  feminine  flavours 
begins  its  distilling  and  the  rush  of  visitors 
takes  place  as  usual. 

Now  that  I  possess  these  data,  this  unex- 
pected light  on  the  subject,  I  am  at  liberty  to 
vary  my  experiments,  all  of  which  lead  to  the 
same  conclusion.  In  the  morning,  I  establish 
the  female  under  a  wire-gauze  cover.  Her 
perch  is  a  little  oak-twig  similar  to  the  last. 
Here,  motionless,  as  though  dead,  she  remains 
for  long  hours,  buried  in  the  tuft  of  leaves 
that  is  to  be  impregnated  with  her  emanations. 
When  visiting-time  approaches,  I  withdraw 
the  twig,  perfectly  saturated,  and  lay  it  on  a 
chair,  near  the  open  window.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  leave  the  female  under  her  cover,  well 
in  view  on  the  table,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

The  Moths  arrive,  first  one,  then  two  and 
three,  soon  five  and  six.  They  come  in,  go 

293 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

out,  come  in  again,  fly  up  and  down,  go  to  and 
fro,  keeping  all  the  time  to  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  chair  with  its  oak-branch.  Not 
one  makes  for  the  big  table,  a  few  paces  far- 
ther into  the  room,  where  the  female  is  wait- 
ing for  them  under  the  trellised  dome.  They 
are  hesitating,  that  is  clear;  they  are  seeking. 

At  last  they  find.  And  what  do  they  find? 
The  very  twig  which  in  the  morning  had 
served  the  pot-bellied  matron  as  a  bed.  With 
wings  swiftly  fluttering,  they  alight  upon  the 
branch;  they  explore  it  above  and  below, 
probe  it,  lift  it  and  move  it,  until  at  last  the 
little  bit  of  foliage  drops  on  the  floor.  The 
probing  between  the  leaves  continues  none  the 
less.  Under  the  buffeting  of  the  wings  and 
the  clawing  of  the  feet,  the  stick  is  now  run- 
ning along  the  ground,  like  a  scrap  of  paper 
pawed  by  a  kitten. 

While  the  twig  is  moving  away  with  its 
band  of  explorers,  two  new  'arrivals  come 
upon  the  scene.  On  their  way,  they  have  to 
pass  the  chair,  which  for  a  brief  spell  bore  the 
leafy  stick.  They  stop  at  it  and  eagerly  in- 
vestigate the  very  spot  which  but  now  was 
covered  by  the  branch.  And  yet,  in  their  case 
as  in  that  of  the  others,  the  real  object  of  their 

294 


The  Banded  Monk 

desires  is  close  by  them,  under  a  wire  gauze 
which  I  have  omitted  to  veil.  No  one  notices- 
it.  On  the  floor,  the  Monks  continue  to  hustle 
the  mattress  on  which  the  female  lay  in  the 
morning;  on  the  chair,  they  still  fumble  at 
the  spot  where  this  bedding  was  first  placed. 
The  sun  goes  down ;  the  time  comes  to  de- 
part. Besides,  the  effluvia  of  passion  are 
growing  fainter,  are  dispersing.  The  visitors 
go  away  without  more  ado.  Good-bye  till 
to-morrow. 

The  following  tests  tell  me  that  any  ma- 
terial, no  matter  what,  can  take  the  place  of 
the  leafy  branch,  that  chance  inspiration  of 
mine.  Some  time  in  advance,  I  place  the  fe- 
male on  a  couch  of  cloth  or  flannel,  of  wad- 
ding or  paper.  I  even  subject  her  to  the  hard- 
ship of  a  camp-bed  of  wood,  glass,  marble  or 
metal.  All  these  objects,  after  a  contact  of 
sufficient  length,  have  the  same  powerful  at- 
traction for  the  males  as  the  mother  Monk 
herself.  They  retain  this  property  to  a  vary- 
ing extent,  according  to  their  nature.  The 
best  are  wadding,  flannel,  dust,  sand,  in  short, 
porous  objects.  Metals,  marble  and  glass, 
on  the  contrary,  soon  lose  their  efficacy. 
Lastly,  anything  on  which  the  female  has 

2QS 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

rested  communicates  its  virtue  to  other  places 
by  simple  contact,  as  witness  the  Moths 
crowding  to  the  seat  of  the  cane-bottomed 
chair  after  the  oak-branch  had  fallen  from  it. 

Let  us  use  one  of  the  best  beds,  flannel,  for 
instance,  and  we  shall  see  a  curious  thing.  I 
place  at  the  bottom  of  a  long  test-tube  or  of 
a  narrow-necked  bottle,  just  wide  enough  to 
allow  of  the  Moth's  passage,  a  piece  of  flannel 
on  which  the  mother  has  been  lying  all  the 
morning.  The  callers  go  into  the  vessels, 
flounder  about,  do  not  know  how  to  get  out 
again.  I  have  invented  a  mouse-trap  for  them 
by  means  of  which  I  could  do  terrific  execu- 
tion. Let  us  release  the  poor  things,  remove 
the  piece  of  stuff  and  put  it  away  in  an  her- 
metically closed  box.  The  infatuated  Moths 
go  back  to  the  test-tube,  headlong  reenter 
the  trap.  They  are  attracted  by  the  effluvia 
which  the  saturated  flannel  has  imparted  to 
the  glass. 

I  am  fully  convinced.  To  summon  the 
Moths  of  the  district  to  the  wedding,  to  ap- 
prise them  at  a  distance  of  her  presence  and 
to  guide  them,  the  bride  emits  an  extremely 
subtle  scent,  imperceptible  to  our  own  organs 
of  smell.  With  the  mother  Monk  held  to 
296 


The  Banded  Monk 

their  nostrils,  those  around  me  perceive  not 
the  least  odour,  not  even  the  youngest,  whose 
senses  are  not  yet  vitiated. 

This  quintessence  easily  impregnates  every 
object  on  which  the  female  rests  for  any 
length  of  time;  and  thenceforth  the  actual 
object  becomes  as  potent  a  centre  of  attraction 
as  the  mother  herself,  until  the  emanations 
are  dispelled. 

Nothing  visible  betrays  the  bait.  On  a 
piece  of  paper,  a  recent  resting-place  around 
which  the  visitors  crowd,  there  is  not  an  ap- 
preciable trace,  no  moisture  of  any  kind;  the 
surface  is  just  as  clean  as  before  the  impregna- 
tion. 

The  product  is  slowly  elaborated  and  has  to 
accumulate  a  little  while  before  manifesting 
its  full  strength.  When  taken  from  her 
couch  and  placed  elsewhere,  the  female  loses 
her  attractions  for  the  time  and  becomes  an 
object  of  indifference;  it  is  the  resting-place, 
saturated  by  long  contact,  that  draws  the 
newcomers.  But  the  batteries  are  recharged 
and  the  deserted  one  recovers  her  power. 

The  appearance  of  the  warning  effluvium 
is  delayed  for  a  longer  or  shorter  period  ac- 
cording to  the  species.  The  newly-hatched 

297 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Moth  has  to  mature  for  a  time  and  to  put  her 
distillery  in  order.  A  female  Great  Peacock, 
born  in  the  morning,  sometimes  has  visitors 
that  same  evening,  but  oftener  on  the  second 
day,  after  preparations  lasting  some  forty 
hours.  The  female  Banded  Monk  adjourns 
her  summons  longer  than  that:  her  banns  of 
marriage  are  not  published  until  after  two  or 
three  days'  waiting. 

Let  us  return  for  a  moment  to  the  problem- 
atical functions  of  the  antennae.  The  male 
Monk  sports  a  sumptuous  pair,  similar  to 
those  of  the  Great  Peacock,  who  vies  with 
him  in  his  matrimonial  expeditions.  Are  we 
to  look  upon  these  hairy  feelers  as  a  guiding 
compass?  I  repeat,  without  laying  much 
stress  on  the  matter,  my  former  amputations. 
None  of  the  patients  comes  back.  We  must 
be  chary  of  drawing  inferences,  however. 
The  Great  Peacock  has  shown  us  that  the 
failure  to  return  is  due  to  more  serious  rea- 
sons than  amputation  of  the  horns. 

Moreover,  a  second  Monk,  the  Clover 
Bombyx,  nearly  akin  to  the  first  and,  like  him, 
superbly  plumed,  sets  us  an  exceedingly  per- 
plexing problem.  He  is  fairly  plentiful 
arc-und  my  place ;  even  in  the  enclosure  I  fine 
298 


The  Banded  Monk 

his  cocoon,  which  might  easily  be  confused 
with  that  of  the  Oak  Bombyx.  I  am  deceived 
at  first  by  the  resemblance.  Out  of  six  co- 
coons, from  which  I  expected  to  obtain 
Banded  Monks,  six  females  of  the  other  spe- 
cies hatch  at  the  end  of  August.  Well, 
around  those  six  females,  born  in  my  house, 
never  a  male  appears,  though  there  is  no 
doubt  that  the  tufted  ones  are  present  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

If  spreading  feathered  antennae  are  really 
organs  for  receiving  information  at  a  distancer 
why  are  not  my  richly-horned  neighbours  in- 
formed of  what  is  happening  in  my  study? 
Why  do  their  fine  plumes  leave  them  indiffer- 
ent to  events  that  would  bring  the  Banded 
Monk  hastening  up  in  crowds?  Once  morer 
the  organ  does  not  determine  the  aptitude. 
This  one  is  gifted  and  that  one  is  not,  despite 
organic  similarity. 


299 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    SENSE    OF    SMELL 

IN  PHYSICS  we  hear  of  nothing  nowadays 
but  the  Rontgen  rays,  which  penetrate 
dense  bodies  and  photograph  the  invisible  for 
us.  A  fine  discovery,  but  how  insignificant 
in  face  of  the  surprises  which  the  future  re- 
serves for  us  when,  better-informed  of  the 
why  and  wherefore  of  things,  we  supplement 
with  art  the  feebleness  of  our  senses  and  suc- 
ceed in  rivalling,  be  it  ever  so  little,  the  keen- 
ness of  perception  revealed  by  the  brute  crea- 
tion. 

How  enviable,  in  many  cases,  is  this  animal 
superiority!  It  teaches  us  the  poverty  of  our 
attainments;  it  declares  the  mediocrity  of  our 
sensory  apparatus;  it  gives  us  evidence  of 
impressions  foreign  to  our  nature;  it  pro- 
claims realities  so  far  in  excess  of  our  attri- 
butes that  they  astound  us. 

A    wretched  caterpillar,   the    Pine    Proces- 
sionary,   splits   his   back    into    meteorological 
air-holes  which  snuff  the  coming  weather  and~ 
3oc 


The  Sense  of 

/oretell  the  squall;  die_bird ...of .prey,  with  its 
incomparably  long  sight,  sees  from  high  in 
the  clouds  the  Field-mouse  squatting  on  the 
ground;  the  blinded  Bats  guide  their  flight 
without  injury  to  themselves  amid  Spallan- 
/aniV  inextricable  maze  of  threads;  the  Car- 
rier-pigeon, though  moved  a  hundred  leagues 
from  home,  infallibly  regains  his  cote  across 
immensities  which  he  has  never  traversed  un- 
aided; within  the  limits  of  her  humbler  ftightr 
a  Bee,  the  Chalicodoma,'  also  spans  the  un- 
known, accomplishes  a  long  journey  and  re- 
.  turns  to~Tie f'ffiass-  of  €eHs. 

The  man  who  has  never  seen  a  Dog  hunt- 
ing for  truffles  does  not  know  one  of  the  finest 
achievements  of  the  sense  of  smell.  Absorbed 
in  its  functions,  the  animal  trots  along,  with 
its  nose  to  the  wind,  at  a  moderate  pace.  It 
stops,  questions  the  ground  with  its  nostrils, 
scratches  for  a  few  seconds,  without  undue 
excitement,  and  looks  up  at  its  master: 

"Here  we  are,"  it  seems  to  say,  "here  we 

!The  Abbe  Lazaro  Spallanzani  (1729-99),  an  early 
experimenter  in  natural  history  and  author  of  a  num- 
ber of  important  works  on  the  circulation  of  the  blood, 
on  digestion,  on  generation  and  on  microscopic  ani- 
mals. Cf.  The  Hunting  Wasps:  chap.  xix. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

-Ci.   The  Mason-Bees,  passim. — Translator's  Note. 
301 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

are !      On   my   word   of   honour   as   a    Dog, 
there's  a  truffle  here." 

And  it  speaks  the  truth.  The  master  digs 
at  the  point  indicated.  If  the  trowel  goes 
astray,  the  Dog  shows  the  man  how  to  put  it 
right  by  sniffing  at  the  bottom  of  the  hole. 
Do  not  be  afraid  of  the  stones  and  roots  in 
between :  despite  the  depth  and  intervening 
obstacles,  the  tuber  will  come.  A  Dog's  nose 
cannot  lie. 

"Subtlety  of  smell,"  you  say. 

I  have  no  objection,  if  by  that  you  mean 
that  the  animal's  nasal  passages  are  the  or- 
gan of  perception;  but  is  the  thing  perceived 
always  a  mere  smell,  in  the  ordinary  accept- 
ation of  the  word,  an  effluvium  such  as  our 
own  senses  understand  it?  I  have  some  rea- 
son to  doubt  this.  Let  us  set  the  matter 
forth. 

I  have  had  the  good  fortune  on  several  oc- 
casions to  accompany  a  Dog  who  was  a  great 
expert  at  his  trade.  Certainly  he  was  nothing 
to  look  at,  this  artist  whom  I  was  so  anxi- 
ous to  see  at  work :  just  a  Dog,  placid  and  de- 
liberate in 'his  ways,  ugly,  unkempt;  the  sort 
of  Dog  that  you  would  never  admit  to  your 
fireside.  Talent  and  poverty  often  go  hand 
in  hand. 

302 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

His  master,  a  celebrated  rabassier^  in  the 
village,  convinced  that  I  had  no  intention  of 
stealing  his  secrets  and  one  day  setting  up  in 
competition,  allowed  me  to  join  him  in  his 
expeditions,  a  favour  which  he  did  not  often 
grant.  The  worthy  man  was  quite  willing  to 
fall  in  with  my  views,  once  he  saw  that  I  was 
not  an  apprentice  but  merely  an  enquirer  who 
made  drawings2  and  wrote  down  lists  of  un- 
derground vegetable  things,  instead  of  mar- 
keting my  bagful  of  treasure-trove,  the  glory 
of  the  Christmas  Turkey. 

It  was  agreed  between  us  that  the  Dog 
should  act  as  he  pleased  and  receive  a  bit  of 
bread  as  his  reward  after  each  discovery,  in- 
discriminately. Every  spot  scratched  up  by 
his  paws  was  to  be  dug  and  the  object  indi- 
cated extracted  without  our  troubling  about 
its  commercial  value.  In  no  case  was  the 
master's  experience  to  intervene  and  divert 
the  dog  from  a  spot  where  practice  told  him 

^Rabasso  is  the  Provengal  for  truffle.  Hence  the 
word  rabassier  to  denote  a  truffle-hunter. — Author's 
Note. 

2For  some  account  of  Fahre's  drawings  of  the  fungi 
of  his  district,  cf.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  by  J.  Henri 
Fabre,  translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos : 
chap.  xvii. — Translator's  Note. 

303 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

that  nothing  saleable  was  to  be  found,  for, 
in  drawing  up  my  botanical  lists,  I  preferred 
wretched  and  unmarketable  products  to  the 
choicest  morsels,  though  these  of  course  were 
welcomed  when  they  appeared. 

Thus  conducted,  the  underground  bota- 
nizing was  very  fruitful.  With  his  perspica- 
cious nose,  the  Dog  made  me  gather  indif- 
ferently the  large  and  the  small,  the  fresh  and 
the  putrid,  the  scented  and  the  unscented,  the 
fragrant  and  the  stinking.  I  was  amazed  at 
my  collection,  which  comprised  the  greater 
part  of  the  hypogean  fungi  in  my  neighbour- 
hood. 

What  a  variety  of  structure  and  above  all 
of  odour,  the  primary  quality  in  this  question 
of  scent!  There  are  some  that  have  nothing 
more  noticeable  than  a  vague  fungous  musti- 
ness,  which  is  more  or  less  evident  in  all. 
Some  smell  of  turnips,  of  rotten  cabbage; 
some  are  fetid  enough  to  fill  the  collector's 
house  with  their  stench.  The  real  truffle 
alone  possesses  the  aroma  dear  to  the  epi- 
cure. 

If  smell,  as  we  understand  it,  is  the  Dog's 
only  guide,  how  does  he  manage  to  find  his 
way  through  all  these  incongruous  odours? 

304 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

Is  he  apprised  of  the  contents  of  the  soil  by 
a  general  emanation,  the  fungous  effluvium 
common  to  the  different  species?  In  that 
case  an  extremely  embarrassing  question 
arises. 

I  paid  some  attention  to  the  ordinary  mush- 
rooms, many  of  which,  as  yet  invisible,  an- 
nounced their  coming  as  imminent  by  crack- 
ing the  surface  of  the  ground.  Now  I  never 
saw  the  Dog  stop  at  any  of  those  points 
where  my  eyes  divined  the  cryptogam  push- 
ing back  the  earth  with  the  thrust  of  its  cap, 
points  where  the  ordinary  fungous  smell  was 
certainly  most  pronounced.  He  passed  them 
by  scornfully,  with  not  a  sniff,  with  not  a 
stroke  of  his  paw.  And  yet  the  thing  was 
underground;  and  its  reek  was  similar  to 
others  which  he  sometimes  pointed  out  to  us. 
I  came  back  from  the  Dog's  school  with 
the  conviction  that  the  truffle-detecting  nose 
has  a  better  guide  than  smell,  in  the  sense  in 
which  our  olfactory  powers  realize  it.  Tt 
must  perceive,  in  addition,  effluvia  of  a"  dif- 
ferent order,  full  of  mystery  to  us,  who  are 
not  equipped  accordingly.  _Lighthas  its  dark 
j-ays,  which  are  without  effect  upon  our  retinae, 

but  not  apparently  upon  all.  Why  should  not 
-  rr  J . .  f_  , .... ...  ^-\  ^  ^~^_^ 

305 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

the  ,d&main  of  smell  hav:e  its  secret  emana- 
'  •  -11 

tiOns,  unknown  to  our  senses  but  perceptible 

to  a  differently  constructed  organ  of  smell? 

If  the  scent  of  the  Dog  leaves  us  perplexed 
to  this  extent,  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to 
say  exactly  or  even  to  suspect  what  it  per- 
ceives, it  at  least  tells  us  plainly  that  we 
should  be  greatly  mistaken  to  compare  every- 
thing by  human  standards.  The  world  of 
sensations  is  far  larger  than  the  limits  of  our 
sensibility  admit.  What  a  number  of  facts 
in  the  working  of  the  forces  of  nature  escape 
us  for  want  of  organs  delicate  enough  to  per- 
ceive them ! 

The  unknown,  that  inexhaustible  field 
which  the  future  will  cultivate,  holds  harvests 
in  store  for  us  beside  which  our  present 
knowledge  is  but  a  pitiful  gleaning.  Under 
the  sickle  of  science  sheaves  will  one  day  fall 
whose  grain  to-day  would  seem  a  senseless 
paradox.  Scientific  illusions?  Not  so,  if  you 
please,  but  undeniable  and  positive  realities, 
affirmed  by  the  animal  world,  which  in  cert- 
ain respects  has  a  great  advantage  over  the 
world  of  man. 

In  spite  of  his  long  professional  practice, 
in  spite  of  the  aroma  of  the  tuber  which  he 
306 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

is  seeking,  the  rabassier  cannot  guess  the 
presence  of  the  truffle,  which  ripens  in  winter 
underground,  at  a  depth  of  eighteen  inches  or 
so;  he  needs  the  aid  of  the  Dog  or  the  Pig, 
whose  scent  pries  into  the  secrets  of  the  soil. 
Well,  these  secrets  are  known  to  different  in- 
sects even  better  than  to  our  two  helpers.  In 
order  to  discover  the  tuber  on  which  their 
family  of  grubs  is  to  be  fed,  they  possess  a 
scent  of  exceptional  perfection. 

Long  ago,  from  truffles  dug  up  spoilt  and 
teeming  with  vermin  and  placed  in  this  con- 
dition in  a  glass  jar  with  a  layer  of  fresh  sand, 
I  obtained  first  a  small  red  Beetle  (Anisotoma 
clnnamornea,  PANZ.)  and  then  various  Dip- 
tera,  including  a  Sapromyzon,  who,  with  her 
sluggish  flight  and  feeble  frame,  reminds  me 
of  a  Fly,  clad  in  yellow  velvet,  known  as 
Scatophaga  scybalana,  that  placid  frequenter 
of  human  excrement  in  autumn. 

The  latter  finds  her  truffle  on  the  surface 
of  the  ground,  at  the  foot  of  a  wall  or  hedge, 
man's  usual  hasty  refuge  in  the  country;  but 
how  does  the  other  know  at  wrhat  point  un- 
derground lies  hers,  or  rather  her  grubs' 
truffle?  To  go  down  and  hunt  about  in  the 
depths  is  beyond  her  power.  Her  frail 

307 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

limbs,  which  the  moving  of  a  grain  of  sand 
would  warp;  her  wings,  which,  if  extended, 
would  block  her  way  through  a  gorge;  her 
dress  of  stiff  silk,  militating  against  a  smooth 
passage:  these  are  all  against  her.  The  Sa- 
promyzon  is  obliged  to  lay  her  eggs  on  the 
surface  of  the  soil,  but  she  must  do  so  at  the 
very  spot  beneath  which  the  truffle  lies,  for 
the  tiny  grubs  would  die  if  they  had  to  roam 
at  random  until  they  came  upon  their  proven- 
der, which  is  always  sparsely  distributed. 

The  truffle-hunting  Fly  is  therefore  in- 
formed by  her  sense  of  smell  of  the  spots  fa- 
vourable to  her  maternal  plans;  she  possesses 
the  scent  of  the  rabassier  Dog,  indeed  pro- 
bably a  better  one,  for  she  knows  things  by 
nature,  having  never  been  taught,  whereas 
her  rival  has  only  received  an  artificial  educa- 
tion. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  follow  the  Sa- 
promyzon's  manoeuvres,  but  the  idea  strikes 
me  as  impracticable.  The  insect  is  rare,  flies 
away  quickly  and  is  soon  out  of  sight.  To 
observe  it  closely,  to  watch  it  at  work  would 
involve  a  great  loss  of  time  and  a  degree  of 
assiduity  of  which  1  do  not  feel  capable.  An- 
other discoverer  of  underground  fungi  shall 
308 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

reveal  what  the  Fly  could  hardly  be  expected 
to  show  us. 

This  is  a  pretty  little  black  Beetle,  with  a 
pale  and  velvety  belly,  round  as  a  cherry- 
stone and  much  the  same  size.  The  insect's 
official  title  is  Bolboceras  gallicus,  MULS.  By 
rubbing  the  tip  of  its  abdomen  against  the 
edge  of  its  wing-cases  it  emits  a  soft  chirrup 
similar  to  that  of  the  little  birds  when  their 
mother  comes  home  with  their  food.  The 
male  wears  a  graceful  horn  on  his  head, 
copied  on  a  smaller  scale  from  that  of  the 
Spanish  Copris.1 

Deceived  by  this  armour,  I  at  first  took  the 
insect  for  a  member  of  the  Dung-beetles' 
corporation  and  brought  it  up  as  such  in  cap- 
tivity. I  served  it  with  these  stercoral  dainties 
which  are  most  appreciated  by  its  presumed 
colleagues.  But  never,  no,  never  did  it  con- 
sent to  touch  them.  Fie,  for  shame!  Dung 
to  a  Bolboceras!  Well!  What  on  earth  did 
I  take  him  for?  The  epicure  expects  some- 
thing very  different.  He  wants  not  exactly 
the  truffle  of  our  banquets,  but  its  equivalent. 

'One  of  the  Dung-beetles.  Cf.  The  Life  and  Love 
of  the  Insect:  chap.  v. — Translator's  Note. 

30Q 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

This  characteristic  was  not  displayed  to  me 
without  pntient  investigation  on  my  part.  At 
the  southern  foot  of  the  Serignan  hills,  not 
far  from  the  village,  stands  a  thicket  of  mari- 
time pines,  alternating  with  rows  of  cypress- 
trees.  Here,  at  the  season  of  All  Saints,  af- 
ter the  autumnal  rains,  the  mushrooms 
abound  that  frequent  the  Coni ferae,  in  par- 
ticular the  delicious  milk-mushroom,  which 
turns  green  at  any  part  that  is  bruised  and 
sheds  tears  of  blood  when  you  break  it.1  In 
the  mild  days  of  autumn  this  is  the  favourite 
walk  of  my  household,  being  far  enough  to 
exercise  young  legs  and  near  enough  not  to 
tire  them. 

They  find  everything  there:  old  Magpies' 
nests,  formed  of  bundles  of  twigs;  Jays 
squabbling  with  one  another,  after  filling  their 
crops  with  acorns  on  the  oaks  hard  by;  Rab- 
bits suddenly  starting  out  of  a  rosemary-bush, 
showing  their  little  white  upturned  scuts; 
Geotrupes2  hoarding  away  food  for  the  win- 
ter and  heaping  up  their  rubbish  on  the 

1Cf.   The  Life  of  the  Fl\:  chap,  xviii. — Translator's 
Note. 

2Cf.   The  Life  and  Love  of  the  Insect:  chap,  ix.— 
Translator's  Note. 

310 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

threshold  of  the  burrow.  And  then  lovely 
sand,  soft  to  the  touch,  easy  to  dig  into  tun- 
nels, easy  to  build  into  rows  of  huts  which  we 
thatch  with  moss  and  surmount  with  a  bit  of 
reed  by  way  of  a  chimney;  and  the  delicious 
lunch  off  an  apple  to  the  sound  of  the  ./Eolian 
harps  softly  sighing  through  the  .pine-needles! 

Yes,  for  the  children  it  is  a  real  paradise, 
where  one  goes  as  a  reward  for  well-learnt 
lessons.  The  grown-ups  also  have  their  share 
of  enjoyment.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I 
have  for  many  years  been  watching  two  in- 
sects here,  without  succeeding  in  discovering 
their  family  secrets.  One  of  them  is  Mino- 
taums  typhteus,1  whose  male  carries  on  his 
corselet  three  spikes  pointing  in  front  of  him. 
The  old  writers  used  to  call  him  the  Phalan- 
gist,  because  of  his  armour,  which  may  be 
compared  with  the  three  lines  of  spears  of  the 
Macedonian  phalanx. 

He  is  a  robust  fellow,  who  cares  nothing 
for  the  winter.  All  through  the  cold  season, 
whenever  the  weather  turns  a  trifle  milder, 
he  leaves  his  house  discreetly,  at  nightfall, 
and  gathers,  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood 

1A  Dung-beetle.     Cf.  The  Life  and  Love  of  the  In- 
sect:  chao.  x. — Translator's  Note. 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

of  his  burrow,  a  few  Sheep-droppings,  ancient, 
olive-shaped  remains  dried  by  the  summer 
sun.  He  heaps  them  in  a  stack  at  the  bottom 
of  his  larder,  shuts  the  door  and  eats.  When 
the  provisions  are  all  crumbed  and  drained 
of  their  niggardly  juices,  he  climbs  back  to 
the  surface  and  renews  his  stores.  Thus  does 
he  spend  the  winter,  never  resting  from  his 
work,  except  when  the  weather  is  too  severe. 

The  second  object  of  my  observations  in 
the  pine-wood  is  the  Bolboceras.  His  bur- 
rows, distributed  here  and  there,  among  those 
of  the  Minotaur,  are  easily  distinguished. 
The  Phalangist's  are  surmounted  by  a  bulky 
mound  the  materials  of  which  are  heaped  into 
a  cylinder  as  long  as  one's  finger.  Each  of 
these  rolls  is  a  load  of  rubbish  pushed  outside 
by  the  digger,  thrusting  with  his  back  from 
below.  The  orifice  moreover  is  closed  when- 
ever the  Beetle  is  at  home,  either  enlarging 
the  shaft  or  peacefully  enjoying  his  possess- 
ions. 

The  Bolboceras'  lodging  is  open  and  sur- 
rounded merely  by  a  padding  of  sand.  Its 
depth  is  slight,  nine  inches,  hardly  more.  It 
goes  straight  down  in  very  loose  soil.  It  is 
easily  inspected,  therefore,  if  we  take  care  first 
312 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

to  dig  a  trench  in  front  of  it,  which  will  enable 
us  later  to  cut  away  the  perpendicular  wall, 
slice  by  slice,  with  the  blade  of  a  knife.  The 
burrow  then  appears  at  full  length,  from  top 
to  bottom,  in  a  semicylindrical  shape. 

Often  the  violated  dwelling-house  is  empty. 
The  insect  has  left  during  the  night,  having 
finished  its  business  there  and  gone  to  settle 
elsewhere.  The  Bolboceras  is  a  nomad,  a 
night-walker,  who  leaves  his  home  without 
regret  and  easily  acquires  a  new  one.  Some- 
times also  the  insect  is  found  at  the  bottom  of 
the  pit :  at  one  time  a  male,  at  another  a  fe- 
male, but  never  the  two  at  a  time.  The  sexes, 
both  equally  zealous  in  digging  burrows, 
work  separately,  not  together.  This  is  not, 
in  fact,  a  family  residence,  containing  the 
nursery  of  the  young;  it  is  a  temporary  abode, 
dug  by  each  occupant  for  his  own  comfort. 

Sometimes  we  find  nothing  there  but  the 
well-sinker,  surprised  during  his  work  of  ex- 
cavation; sometimes,  lastly — and  the  case  is 
not  uncommon — 'the  hermit  of  the  crypt  em- 
braces with  his  legs  a  small  hypogean  fun- 
gus, either  intact  or  partly  consumed.  He 
clutches  it  convulsively,  refuses  to  be  parted 
from  it.  It  is  his  booty,  his  fortune,  his 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

worldly  goods.  Scattered  crumbs  tell  us  that 
we  have  caught  him  feasting. 

Let  us  take  his  prize  away  from  him.  We 
shall  see  a  sort  of  irregular,  rugged  purse, 
closed  on  every  side  and  varying  in  size  be- 
tween a  pea  and  a  cherry.  Outside  it  is  red- 
dish, rough  with  little  warts;  inside  it  is 
smooth  and  white.  The  spores,  which  are 
ovoid  and  diaphanous,  are  contained,  in  rows 
of  eight,  in  long  satchels.  By  these  charac- 
teristics we  recognize  an  underground  cryp- 
togamous  product,  nearly  related  to  the  truf- 
fles and  known  to  botanists  as  Hydnocysris 
ar en  aria,  TUL. 

This  throws  a  light  upon  the  habits  of  the 
Bolboceras  and  upon  the  reason  why  his  bur- 
rows are  so  frequently  renewed.  In  the  calm 
of  the  twilight,  the  little  gadabout  takes  to 
the  fields,  chirruping  softly  as  he  goes,  cheer- 
ing himself  with  song.  He 'explores  the  soil, 
questions  it  as  to  its  contents,  just  as  the  Dog 
does  when  hunting  for  truffles.  His  sense  of 
smell  warns  him  when  the  coveted  morsel  is 
underneath,  covered  by  a  few  inches  of  sand. 
Certain  of  the  exact  spot  where  the  thing  lies, 
he  digs  straight  down  and  never  fails  to 
reach  it.  As  long  as  the  provisions  last,  he 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

does  not  go  out  again.  Blissfully  he  feeds  at 
the  bottom  of  the  well,  heedless  of  the  door 
left  open  or  hardly  barred. 

When  no  more  food  remains,  he  moves, 
looking  for  another  loaf,  which  will  become 
the  excuse  for  a  fresh  burrow,  to  be  aban- 
doned in  its  turn.  Each  fungus  consumed 
represents  a  new  house,  which  is  a  mere  re- 
fectory, a  traveller's  refreshment-room.  Thus 
are  the  autumn  and  spring,  the  seasons  of  the 
hydnocystis,  spent  in  the  pleasures  of  the 
table,  from  one  home  to  the  next. 

To  study  the  rabassier  insect  more  closely, 
in  my  own  house,  I  should  need  a  little  store 
of  its  favourite  fare.  It  would  be  waste  of 
time  to  seek  for  it  myself,  by  digging  at  ran- 
dom:  the  little  cryptogam  is  not  so  plentiful 
that  I  can  hope  to  strike  it  with  my  trowel 
without  a  guide.  The  truffle-hunter  needs  his 
Dog;  my  informer  shall  be  the  Bolboceras 
himself.  Behold  me  turned  into  a  rabassier 
of  a  new  kind.  I  reveal  my  secret,  which  can 
only  raise  a  smile  from  my  original  instructor 
in  underground  botany,  if  he  should  ever  hear 
of  my  singular  form  of  competition. 

The  subterranean  fungi  occur  only  at  cert- 
ain points,  often  in  groups.  Now  the  Beetle 
315 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

has  been  this  way;  with  his  delicate  scent  he 
has  recognized  the  site  as  good,  for  the  bur- 
rows are  numerous  hereabouts.  We  will 
therefore  dig  near  the  holes.  The  clue  is  ac- 
curate. In  a  few  hours,  thanks  to  the  tracks 
left  by  the  Bolboceras,  I  possess  a  handful  of 
hydnocystes.  It  is  the  first  time  that  I  have 
gathered  this  particular  fungus.  Let  us  now 
catch  the  insect.  That  presents  no  difficult- 
ies :  we  have  only  to  dig  up  the  burrows. 

I  make  my  experiments  the  same  evening, 
filling  a  large  earthen  pan  with  fresh,  sifted 
sand.  With  a  stick  as  thick  as  my  finger,  I 
make  six  vertical  tunnels  in  the  sand,  two 
decimetres1  deep  and  placed  at  a  suitable  dis- 
tance apart.  A  hydnocystis  is  lowered  to  the 
bottom  of  each;  and  I  insert  a  fine  straw,  to 
show  me  the  exact  position  later.  Lastly,  I 
fill  up  the  six  cavities  with  caked  sand.  When 
this  surface  has  been  carefully  smoothed,  so 
that  the  level  is  everywhere  the  same,  except 
for  the  six  straws,  landmarks  that  mean  no- 
thing to  the  Bolboceras,  I  let  loose  my  cap- 
tives, covering  them  with  a  wire-gauze  cage. 
There  are  eight  of  them. 

At  first  there  is  nothing  to  see  save  the  in- 

1 7.8    inches. — Translator's    Note. 
316 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

evitable  uneasiness  due  to  the  incidents  of 
their  exhumation,  transport  and  confinement 
in  an  unknown  place.  My  exiles  from  home 
try  to  escape,  climb  up  the  wire,  burrow  right 
at  the  edge  of  the  enclosure.  Night  falls  and 
things  grow  calmer.  Two  hours  later,  I  come 
to  take  a  last  look  at  them.  Three  are  still 
buried  under  a  thin  layer  of  sand.  The  five 
others  have  each  dug  a  perpendicular  shaft  at 
the  very  foot  of  the  straws  which  tell  me 
where  the  fungi  lie.  Next  morning,  the  sixth 
straw  has  its  well  like  the  others. 

This  is  the  moment  to  see  what  is  hap- 
pening underground.  I  remove  the  sand  me- 
thodically in  vertical  slices.  At  the  bottom  of 
each  burrow  is  a  Bolboceras  eating  his  truffle, 
the  hydnocystis. 

Let  us  repeat  the  experiment  with  the 
partly-consumed  victuals.  The  result  is  the 
same.  At  one  brief,  nocturnal  spell  of  work, 
the  dainty  is  discovered  underground  and 
reached  by  means  of  a  gallery  which  runs 
plumb  to  the  spot  where  the  morsel  lies. 
There  is  no  hesitation,  no  trial  excavation 
guided  by  guesswork.  This  is  proved  by  the 
surface  of  the  soil,  which  everywhere  is  just 
as  I  left  it  when  I  smoothed  it  down.  The 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

insect  could  not  have  made  straighter  for  the 
coveted  object  had  it  been  guided  by  sight; 
it  always  digs  at  the  foot  of  the  straws,  my 
sign-posts.  The  Dog,  nosing  the  ground  for 
truffles,  hardly  achieves  this  degree  of  pre- 
cision. 

Has  the  hydnocystis  then  a  very  pungent 
smell,  able  to  give  such  positive  information 
to  its  consumer's  scent?  Not  at  all.  To  our 
nostrils  it  is  a  neutral  object,  devoid  of  any 
appreciable  olfactory  character.  A  tiny  peb- 
ble taken  out  of  the  ground  would  impress  us 
just  as  much  with  its  faint  aroma  of  fresh 
earth.  As  a  revealer  of  underground  fungous 
products,  the  Bolboceras  here  rivals  the  Dog. 
He  would  even  rise  superior  to  the  Dog,  were 
he  able  to  generalize.  But  he  is  a  rigorous 
specialist :  he  knows  only  the  hydnocystis.  No- 
thing else,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  tempts  him 
to  dig.1 

Both  of  them  search  the  subsoil  very 
closely,  at  the  level  of  the  ground;  and  the 
object  which  they  seek  is  not  far  down.  Were 
they  farther  away,  neither  the  Dog  nor  the  in- 

1  Since  writing  the  above  lines,  I  have  found  him 
eating  one  of  the  true  Tuberaceae,  Tuber  Reguienii,  TUL., 
the  size  of  a  cherry. — Author's  Note- 

318 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

sect  would  notice  effluvia  so  subtle,  not  even 
the  smell  of  a  truffle.  To  make  an  impression 
at  a  great  distance,  powerful  odours  are 
needed,  capable  of  perception  by  our  olfac- 
tory sense.  Then  the  exploiters  of  the  odor- 
ous thing  come  hastening  up  on  all  sides  from 
afar. 

When,  for  the  purpose  of  my  studies,  I 
require  insects  that  dissect  corpses,  I  expose 
a  dead  Mole  in  the  sun,  in  a  distant  corner  of 
tne  enclosure.  As  soon  as  the  animal  swells, 
distended  by  the  gases  of  putrefaction,  and 
the  skin  begins  to  turn  green  and  the  fur 
to  fall  from  it,  up  come  numbers  of  Silphse1 
and  Dermestes,2  Necrophori"  and  other  Bury- 
ing-beetles,  of  whom  one  would  find  not  a 
single  specimen  in  the  garden,  or  even  in  the 
neighbourhood,  without  this  bait. 

They  have  been  informed  by  their  sense 
of  smell,  at  a  great  distance  all  around, 
whereas  I  myself  can  avoid  the  stench  by  ta- 
king a  few  steps  back.  Compared  with  their 
scent,  mine  is  contemptible;  but  still,  in  their 

Carrion-beetles    proper. — Translator's    Note. 
-Bacon-beetles. — Translator's  Note. 
"Burying-beetles    proper. — Translator's   Note. 

319 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

case  as  well  as  mine,  there  is  really  here  what 
our  language  calls  a  smell. 

I  can  do  better  still  with  the  flower  of  the 
dragon  arum  (Arum  dracunidus),  so  re- 
markable for  its  shape  and  for  its  unequalled 
stench.  Imagine  a  wide,  lanceolate  blade,  of 
a  clarety  purple,  half  a  yard  long  and  rolled 
below  into  an  ovoid  pouch  the  size  of  a  hen's 
egg.  Through  the  opening  of  this  wallet 
rises  a  central  column  springing  from  the  bot- 
tom, a  long,  bright-green  club,  encircled  at  its 
base  by  two  bracelets,  one  of  ovaries,  the 
other  of  stamens.  Such,  briefly  described,  is 
the  flower,  or  rather  the  inflorescence,  of  the 
dragon  arum. 

For  two  days  it  exhales  a  frightful  stench 
of  carrion,  worse  than  the  proximity  of  a 
dead  Dog  would  yield.  During  the  hottest 
part  of  the  day,  with  a  wind  blowing,  it  is 
loathsome,  unbearable.  Let  us  brave  the  in- 
fected atmosphere  and  go  up  to  it;  we  shall 
behold  a  curious  sight. 

Informed  by  the  foul  odour,  which  spreads 
far  and  wide,  various  insects  come  flying 
along,  such  insects  as  make  sausage-meat  of 
small  corpses — Toads,  Adders,  Lizards, 
Hedgehogs,  Moles,  Field-mice — which  the 
320 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

husbandman  hits  with  his  spade  and  flings 
away  disembowelled  on  the  foot-path.  They 
swoop  down  upon  the  great  leaf,  which, 
with  its  livid  purple,  looks  like  a  strip 
of  meat  gone  bad;  they  caper  about,  in- 
toxicated by  the  smell  of  corpse  which  they 
love;  they  roll  down  the  slope  and  are 
swallowed  up  in  the  purse.  After  a  few 
hours  of  bright  sunshine,  the  receptacle  is 
full. 

Let  us  look  inside,  through  the  narrow 
opening.  No  elsewhere  could  you  see  such  a 
crowd.  It  is  a  mad  whirl  of  backs  and  bel- 
lies, of  wing-cases  and  legs,  swarming,  rolling 
over  and  over,  amid  the  snap  of  interlocked 
joints,  rising  and  falling,  floating  and  sinking, 
seething  and  bubbling  without  end.  It  is  a 
drunken  revel,  an  epidemic  of  delirium 
tremens. 

Some,  few  as  yet,  emerging  from  the  mass, 
climb  to  the  opening  by  means  of  the 
cetitral  pole  or  the  walls  of  the  enclosure. 
Will  they  take  wing  and  make  their  es- 
cape? Not  they!  Standing  on  the  brink  of 
the  chasm,  almost  free,  they  drop  back  into 
the  whirlpool,  in  a  fresh  bout  of  intoxica- 
tion. The  bait  is  irresistible.  Not  one  of 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

them  will  quit  the  assembly  until  the  evening, 
or  perhaps  next  morning,  when  the  heady 
fumes  have  evaporated.  Then  the  mass  be- 
comes disentangled;  and  the  insects  extricate 
themselves  from  one  another's  embraces  and 
slowly,  as  it  were  regretfully,  leave  the  place 
and  fly  away.  At  the  bottom  of  this  devil's 
purse  remains  a  heap  of  dead  and  dying,  of 
severed  limbs  and  disjointed  wing-cases,  the 
inevitable  result  of  the  frenzied  orgy.  Soon, 
Wood-lice,  Earwigs  and  Ants  will  arrive  and 
devour  the  deceased. 

What  were  they  doing  there?  Were  they 
the  prisoners  of  the  flower?  Had  it  con- 
verted itself  into  a  trap  which  allowed  them 
to  enter,  but  prevented  them  from  escaping, 
by  means  of  a  fence  of  converging  hairs? 
No,  they  were  not  prisoners;  they  had  full 
liberty  to  go  away,  as  is  shown  by  the  final 
exodus,  which  is  effected  without  impedi- 
ment. Deceived  by  a  false  odour,  were  they 
doing  their  best  to  instal  their  eggs,  as  th'ey 
would  have  done  under  a  corpse?  Not  that 
either.  There  is  no  trace  of  an  attempt  at 
egg-laying  in  the  dragon's  purse.  They  came, 
enticed  by  the  smell  of  a  dead  body,  their  su- 
preme delight;  they  were  drunk  with  corpse; 
322 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

and  they  spun  round  frantically  in  an  under- 
takers' carnival. 

When  the  bacchanal  dance  is  at  its  height, 
I  try  to  count  the  number  of  the  arrivals.  I 
rip  up  the  floral  pouch  and  pour  its  contents 
into  a  flask.  Absolutely  tipsy  though  they 
be,  many  would  escape  during  the  census, 
which  I  wish  to  take  accurately.  A  few  drops 
of  carbon  bisulphide  deprive  the  crowd  of 
motion.  The  counting  then  shows  that  there 
were  over  four  hundred.  Such  was  the  living 
billow  which  I  saw  surging  just  now  in  the 
dragon's  purse. 

The  throng  consists  entirely  of  two  fami- 
lies, Dermestes  and  Saprini,1  both  of  whom 
are  very  busy  in  spring  turning  derelict  corpses 
to  account.  Here  is  a  complete  list  of  the  vis- 
itors to  a  single  flower,  with  the  number  of 
representatives  of  each  species:  Dermestes 
Frischii,  KUGEL.,  i2o;£).  undulatus,  BRAIIM, 
90;  D.  pardalis,  SCHOENH.,  i;  Saprimis  sub- 
nitidus,  DE  MARS.,  160;  S.  maculatus,  Ross., 
4;  S.  detersus,  ILLIG.,  15;  S.  semipunctatus, 
DE  MARS.,  12 ;  S.  aneus^  FABR.,  2  ;  S.  specidi- 
fer,  LATR.,  2.  Total:  406. 

*A  species  of   small   carnivorous   Beetles. — Translator's 
Note. 

323 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Another  detail  deserves  attention  just  as 
much  as  this  enormous  figure;  and  that  is  the 
complete  absence  of  a  number  of  other  gener? 
which  are  as  passionately  fond  of  small 
corpses  as  are  the  Dermestes  and  Saprini. 
My  charnel-houses  of  Moles  never  fail  to  be 
visited  by  the  Silphae  and  Necrophori :  Silpha 
sinuata,  FABR.  ;  S.  rugosa,  LIN.;  S.  obscura, 
LlN. ;  Necrophorus  vestigator,  HERSCH.  The 
reek  of  the  dragon  arum  leaves  them  all  in- 
different. None  of  them  is  represented  in  the 
ten  flowers  which  T  examine. 

Nor  are  any  Diptera,  those  other  devotees 
of  corruption.  Several  Flies,  some  grey  or 
bluey,  others  a  metallic  green,  come  up,  it  is 
true,  settle  on  the  edge  of  the  flower  and  even 
find  their  way  into  the  fetid  wallet;  but  they 
are  almost  immediately  undeceived  and  fly 
away.  Only  the  Dermestes  and  Saprini  stay 
behind.  Why? 

My  friend  Bull,  as  decent  a  Dog  as  ever 
lived,  had  this  among  many  other  eccentrici- 
ties: if  he  found  in  the  dust  of  the  road  the 
dried  up  corpse  of  a  "Mole  flattened  under  the 
heels  of  the  passers-by,  mummified  by  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  he  would  revel  in  rolling  him- 
self over  it  from  the  tip  of  his  nose  to  the  end 

324 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

of  his  tail;  he  would  rub  himself  in  it  ovef 
and  over  again,  shaken  with  nervous  spasms, 
turning  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other. 
It  was  his  sachet  of  musk,  his  flask  of  eau-de- 
Cologne.  When  scented  to  his  liking,  he 
would  get  up,  shake  himself  and  trot  off, 
pleased  as  Punch  with  his  pomade.  Let  us 
not  abuse  him  and,  above  all,  let  us  not  dis- 
cuss the  matter.  There  are  tastes  of  all  kinds 
in  this  world. 

Why  should  not  some  of  the  insects  that 
dote  on  the  smell  of  the  dead  have  similar 
habits?  Dermestes  and  Saprlni  come  to  the 
dragon  arum;  all  day  long  they  swarm  in 
throngs,  although  free  to  go  away;  many  of 
them  die  in  the  riot  of  the  orgy.  It  is  no 
rich  provender  that  keeps  them,  for  the  flower 
gives  them  nothing  to  eat;  it  is  not  a  question 
of  laying  eggs,  for  they  take  good  care  not 
to  settle  their  grubs  in  that  famine-stricken 
spot.  What  are  they  doing  here,  the  frenzied 
ones?  Apparently  intoxicating  themselves- 
with  fetidness,  just  as  Bull  did  on  the  carcass 
of  a  Mole. 

And  this  intoxication  of  smell  attracts  them 
from  every  part  around,  from  very  far  per- 
haps, one  cannot  tell.  Even  so  the  Necro- 

325 


The  Life  ot"  the  Caterpillar 

phon,  in  quest  of  an  establishment  for  their 
young,  hasten  from  the  fields  to  my  putrefy- 
ing Moles.  Both  are  informed  by  a  potent 
smell,  which  offends  our  nostrils  sixty  yards 
away,  but  which  travels  ahead  and  delights 
them  at  distances  where  our  own  power  of 
scent  ceases. 

The  hydnocystis,  the  Bolboceras'  treat,  has 
none  of  these  violent  emanations,  capable  of 
being  diffused  through  space;  it  is  devoid  of 
smell,  at  least  to  us.  The  insect  that  hunts  for 
it  does  not  come  from  a  distance;  it  inhabits 
the  very  places  where  the  cryptogam  lies. 
However  faint  the  effluvia  of  the  under- 
ground morsel,  the  prying  epicure,  equipped 
for  the  purpose,  has  every  facility  for  per- 
ceiving them:  he  operates  close  by,  on  the 
surface  of  the  soil.  The  Dog's  case  is  the 
same:  he  goes  along  searching,  with  his  nose 
to  the  ground.  Then,  too,  the  real  truffle,  the 
essential  object  of  his  quest,  possesses  a  most 
pronounced  odour. 

But  what  are  we  to  say  of  the  Great  Pea- 
cock and  the  Banded  Monk,  making  their 
way  to  the  female  born  in  captivity?  They 
hasten  from  the  ends  of  the  horizon.  What 
do  they  perceive  at  that  distance?  Is  it  really 
326 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

an  odour,  as  our  physiology  understands  the 
word?  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  it. 

The  Dog  smells  the  truffle  by  sniffing  the 
earth,  quite  close  to  the  tuber;  he  finds  his 
master  at  great  distances  by  consulting  the 
scent  of  his  footprints.  But  is  he  able  to  dis- 
cover the  truffle  hundreds  of  yards  away, 
miles  away?  Can  he  join  h^jrnatfer,  ia J;he 
complete  absence"  of  a  trail?  Certainly  not. 
For  all  his  fineness  of  scent,  the  Dog  is  in- 
capable of  such  a  feat,  which  is  performed, 
however  by  the  Moth,  who  is  put  off  neither 
by  distance  nor  by  the  lack  of  any  traces  out 
'of  doors  of  the  female  hatched  on  my  table. 

It  is  a  recognized  fact  that  smell,  ordinary 
smell,  the  smell  that  affects  our  nostrils,  con- 
sists of  molecules  emanating  from  the  scented 
body.  The  odorous  matter  dissolves  and  is 
diffused  throughout  the  air  by  communicating 
to  the  air  its  aroma,  even  as  sugar  dissolves 
and  is  diffused  in  water  by  communicating  to 
the  water  its  sweetness.  Smell  and  taste 
touch  each  other  at  some  points;  in  both  cases 
there  is  a  contact  between  the  material  parti- 
cles that  give  the  impression  and  the  sensitive 
papillae  that  receive  it. 

Nothing  can  be  simpler  or  clearer  than  that 


i  h^  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

the  dragon  arum  elaborates  an  intensely 
strong  essence  with  which  the  air  is  impreg- 
nated and  infected  all  around.  Thus  the  Der- 
mestes  and  Saprini,  those  passionate  lovers  of 
carrion  smells,  are  informed  by  molecular  dif- 
fusion. In  the  same  way,  the  putrid  Toad 
gives  out  and  disseminates  the  stinking  atoms 
that  are  the  Necrophorus'  delight. 

But  what  is  materially  emitted  by  the  fe- 
male Bombyx  or  Great  Peacock?  Nothing, 
according  to  our  sense  of  smell.  And  this 
nothing  is  supposed,  when  the  males  congre- 
gate, to  saturate  an  immense  circle,  several 
miles  in  radius,  with  its  molecules!  What 
the  horrible  stench  of  the  dragon  arum  is  un- 
able to  do  the  absence  of  odour  is  believed  to 
accomplish !  However  divisible  matter  may 
be,  the  mind  refuses  to  accept  such  conclu- 
sions. It  would  be  tantamount  to  reddening 
a  lake  with  an  atom  of  carmine,  to  filling  im- 
mensity with  nothing. 

Another  argument.  When  my  study  is 
saturated  beforehand  with  pungent  odours 
which  ought  to  overcome  and  destroy  the 
most  delicate  effluvia,  the  male  Moths  arrive 
without  the  least  sign  of  embarrassment. 

A  loud  noise  kills  the  faint  note  and  pre- 
328 


The  Sense  of  Smell 

vents  it  from  being  heard;  a  bright  light 
eclipses  a  feeble  gleam.  These  are  waves  of 
the  same  nature.  But  the  roar  of  thunder 
cannot  cause  the  least  jet  of  light  to  pale;  nor 
can  the  dazzling  glory  of  the  sun  stifle  the 
least  sound.  Being  of  different  natures,  light 
and  sound  do  not  influence  each  other. 

The  experiment  with  the  lavender-oil, 
naphthaline  and  the  rest  would  therefore  seem 
to  prove  that  odour  proceeds  from  two 
sources.  For  emission  substitute  undulation; 
and  the  problem  of  the  Great  Peacock  is  ex- 
plained. Without  losing  any  of  its  substance, 
a  luminous  point  shakes  the  ether  with  its 
vibrations  and  fills  a  circle  of  indefinite  width 
with  light.  This  must  almost  express  the 
working  of  the  mother  Bombyx'  tell-tale  dis- 
charge. It  does  not  emit  molecules:  it  vi- 
brates; it  sets  in  motion  waves  capable  of 
spreading  to  distances  incompatible  with  a 
real  diffusion  of  matter. 

In  its  entirety,  smell  would  thus  seem  to 
have  two  domains:  that  of  the  particles  dis- 
solved in  the  air  and  that  of  the  ethereal 
waves.  The  first  alone  is  known  to  us.  It 
belongs  also  to  the  insect.  It  is  this  which 
informs  the  Saprinus  of  the  dragon  arum's 
329 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

fetidity  and  the  Silpha  and  Necrophorus  of 
the  stench  of  the  Mole. 

The  second,  which  is  far  superior  in  its 
range  through  space,  escapes  us  altogether, 
because  we  lack  the  necessary  sensory  equip- 
ment. The  Great  Peacock  and  the  Banded 
Monk  know  it  at  the  time  of  the  nuptial  re- 
joicings. And  many  others  must  share  it  in 
various  degrees,  according  to  the  exigencies  of 
their  mode  of  life. 

Like  light,  odour  has  its  X-rays.  Should 
science*  ione"day,— mstnrcted-hythf  Insect,  en- 
dow us  with  a  radiograph  of  smells,  this  arti- 
ficial nose  will  open  out  to  us  a  world  of 
marvels. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR 

THE  cabbage  of  our  modern  kitchen- 
gardens  is  a  semi-artificial  plant,  the  pro- 
duce of  our  agricultural  ingenuity  quite  as 
much  as  of  the  niggardly  gifts  of  nature. 
Spontaneous  vegetation  supplied  us  with  the 
long-stalked,  scanty-leaved,  ill-smelling  wild- 
ing, as  found,  according  to  the  botanists,  on 
the  ocean  cliffs.  He  had  need  of  a  rare  in- 
spiration who  first  showed  faith  in  this  rustic 
clown  and  proposed  to  improve  it  in  his  gar- 
den-patch. 

Progressing  by  infinitestimal  degrees,  cul- 
ture wrought  miracles.  It  began  by  persua- 
ding the  wild  cabbage  to  discard  its  wretched 
leaves,  beaten  by  the  sea-winds,  and  to  replace 
them  by  others,  ample  and  fleshy  and  close- 
fitting.  The  gentle  cabbage  submitted  with- 
out protest.  It  deprived  itself  of  the  joys  of 
light  by  arranging  its  leaves  in  a  large,  com- 
pact head,  white  and  tender.  In  our  day, 
among  the  successors  of  those  first  tiny  hearts, 
are  some  that,  by  virtue  of  their  massive  bulk, 

33i 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

have  earned  the  glorious  name  of 
quintal,  as  who  should  say,  a  hundredweight 
of  cabbage.  They  are  real  monuments  of 
green  stuff. 

Later,  man  thought  of  obtaining  a  gene- 
rous dish  with  the  thousand  little  sprays  of  the 
inflorescence.  The  cabbage  consented.  Under 
the  cover  of  the  central  leaves,  it  gorged  with 
food  its  sheaves  of  blossom,  its  flower-stalks, 
its  branches  and  worked  the  lot  into  a  fleshy 
conglomeration.  This  is  the  cauliflower,  the 
broccoli. 

Differently  entreated,  the  plant,  economi- 
zing in  the  centre  of  its  shoot,  set  a  whole 
family  of  closs-wrapped  cabbages  ladder-wise 
on  a  tall  stem.  A  multitude  of  dwarf  leaf- 
buds  took  the  place  of  the  colossal  head.  This 
is  the  Brussels  sprout. 

Next  comes  the  turn  of  the  stump,  an  un- 
profitable, almost  wooden  thing,  which  seemed 
never  to  have  any  other  purpose  than  to  act 
as  a  support  for  the  plant.  But  the  tricks 
of  gardeners  are  capable  of  everything,  so 
much  so  that  the  stalk  yields  to  the  grower's 
suggestions  and  becomes  fleshy  and  swells 
into  an  ellipse  similar  to  the  turnip,  of  which 
it  possesses  all  the  merits  of  corpulence, 
332 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

flavour  and  delicacy;  only  the  strange  product 
serves  as  a  base  for  a  few  sparse  leaves,  the 
last  protests  of  a  real  stem  that  refuses  to 
lose  its  attributes  entirely.  This  is  the  cole- 
rape. 

If  the  stem  allows  itself  to  be  al- 
lured, why  not  the  root?  It  does  in 
fact,  yield  to  the  blandishments  of  agri- 
culture: it  dilates  its  pivot  into  a  flat 
turnip,  which  half  emerges  from  the 
ground.  This  is  the  rutabaga,  or  swede, 
the  turnip-cabbage  of  our  northern  dis- 
tricts. 

Incomparably  docile  under  our  nursing,  the 
cabbage  has  given  its  all  for  our  nourishment 
and  that  of  our  cattle :  its  leaves,  its  flowers, 
its  buds,  its  stalk,  its  root;  all  that  it  now 
wants  is  to  combine  the  ornamental  with  the 
useful,  to  smarten  itself,  to  adorn  our  flower- 
beds and  cut  a  good  figure  on  a  drawing-room 
table.  It  has  done  this  to  perfection,  not  with 
its  flowers,  which,  in  their  modesty,  continue 
intractible,  but  with  its  curly  and  variegated 
leaves,  which  have  the  undulating  grace  of 
Ostrich-feathers  and  the  rich  colouring  of  a 
mixed  bouquet.  None  who  beholds  it  in  this 
magnificence  will  recognize  the  near  relation 

333 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

of  the  vulgar  "greens"  that  form  the  basis  of 
our  cabbage-soup. 

The  cabbage,  first  in  order  of  date  in  our 
kitchen-gardens,  was  held  in  high  esteem  by 
classic  antiquity,  next  after  the  bean  and,  later, 
the  pea;  but  it  goes  much  farther  back,  so  far 
indeed  that  no  memories  of  its  acquisition  re- 
main. History  pays  but  little  attention  to 
these  details:  it  celebrates  the  battle-fields 
whereon  we  meet  our  death,  it  scorns  to  speak 
of  the  ploughed  fields  whereby  we  thrive;  it 
knows  the  names  of  the  kings'  bastards,  it 
cannot  tell  us  the  origin  of  wheat.  That  is 
the  way  of  human  folly. 

This  silence  respecting  the  precious  plants 
that  serve  as  food  is  most  regrettable.  The 
cabbage  in  particular,  the  venerable  cabbage, 
that  denizen  of  the  most  ancient  garden- 
plots,  would  have  had  extremely  interesting 
things  to  teach  us.  It  is  a  treasure  in  itself, 
but  a  treasure  twice  exploited,  first  by  man 
and  next  by  the  caterpillar  of  the  Pieris,  the 
common  Large  White  Butterfly  whom  we  all 
know  (Pieris  brassier,  LIN.).  This  cater- 
pillar feeds  indiscriminately  on  the  leaves  of 
all  varieties  of  cabbage,  however  dissimilar 
in  appearance:  he  nibbles  with  the  same  ap- 

334 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

petite  red  cabbage  and  broccoli,  curly  greens 
and  savoy,  swedes  and  turnip-tops,  in  short, 
all  that  our  ingenuity,  lavish  of  time  and  pa- 
tience, has  been  able  to  obtain  from  the  ori- 
ginal plant  since  the  most  distant  ages. 

But  what  did  the  caterpillar  eat  before  our 
cabbages  supplied  him  with  copious  pro- 
vender? Obviously  the  Pieris  did  not  wait 
for  the  advent  of  man  and  his  horticultural 
works  in  order  to  take  part  in  the  joys  of  life. 
She  lived  without  us  and  would  have  con- 
tinued to  live  without  us.  A  Butterfly's  exist- 
ence is  not  subject  to  ours,  but  rightfully  in- 
dependent of  our  aid. 

Before  the  white-heart,  the  cauliflower,  the 
savoy  and  the  others  were  invented,  the  Pieris' 
caterpillar  certainly  did  not  lack  food:  he 
browsed  the  wild  cabbage  of  the  cliffs,  the 
parent  of  all  the  latter-day  w.ealth ;  but,  as  this 
plant  is  not  widely  distributed  and  is,  in  any 
case,  limited  to  certain  maritime  regions,  the 
welfare  of  the  Butterfly,  whether  on  plain  or 
hill,  demanded  a  more  luxuriant  and  more 
common  plant  for  pasturage.  This  plant  was 
apparently  one  of  the  Cruciferae,  more  or  less 
seasoned  with  sulphuretted  essence,  like  the 
cabbages.  Let  us  experiment  on  these  lines. 

335 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

I  rear  the  Pieris'  caterpillars  from  the  egg 
upwards  on  the  wall-rocket  (Diplo taxis  tenui- 
folia,  DEC.),  which  imbibes  strong  spices 
along  the  edge  of  the  paths  and  at  the  foot  of 
the  walls.  Penned  in  a  large,  wire-gauze  bell- 
cage,  they  accept  this  provender  without  de- 
mur; they  nibble  it  with  the  same  appetite  as 
if  it  were  cabbage;  and  they  end  by  producing 
chrysalids  and  Butterflies.  The  change  of  fare 
causes  not  the  least  trouble. 

I  am  equally  successful  with  other  crucifers 
of  a  less  marked  flavour:  white  mustard 
(Sinapis  incana,  LIN.),  dyer's  woad  (Isatis 
tinctoria,  LIN.),  wild  radish  (Raphanus 
raphanistrum,  LIN.),  whitlow  pepperwort 
(Lepidium  draba,  LIN.),  hedge-mustard 
(Sisymbrium  officinale,  SCOP.).  On  the  other 
hand,  the  leaves  of  the  lettuce,  the  bean,  the 
pea,  the  corn-salad  are  obstinately  refused. 
Let  us  be  content  with  what  we  have  seen : 
the  fare  has  been  sufficiently  varied  to  show 
us  that  the  Cabbage-caterpillar  feeds  exclu- 
sively on  a  large  number  of  crucifers,  perhaps 
even  on  all. 

As  these  experiments  are  made  in  the  en- 
closure of  a  bell-cage,  one  might  imagine  that 
captivity  impels  the  flock  to  feed,  in  the 
336 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

absence  of  better  things,  on  what  it  would 
refuse  were  it  free  to  hunt  for  itself.  Having 
naught  else  within  their  reach,  the  starvelings 
consume  any  and  all  Cruciferae,  without  dis- 
tinction of  species.  Can  things  sometimes  be 
the  same  in  the  open  fields,  where  I  play  none 
of  my  tricks?  Can  the  family  of  the  White 
Butterfly  be  settled  on  other  crucifers  than 
the  cabbage?  I  start  a  quest  along  the  paths 
near  the  gardens  and  end  by  finding  on  wild 
radish  and  white  mustard  colonies  as  crowded 
and  prosperous  as  those  established  on  cab- 
bage. 

Now,  except  when  the  metamorphosis  is  at 
hand,  the  caterpillar  of  the  White  Butterfly 
never  travels :  he  does  all  his  growing  on  the 
identical  plant  whereon  he  saw  the  light.  The 
caterpillars  observed  on  the  wild  radish,  as 
well  as  other  households,  are  not,  therefore, 
emigrants  who  have  come  as  a  matter  of  fancy 
from  some  cabbage-patch  in  the  neighbour- 
hood :  they  have  hatched  on  the  very  leaves 
where  I  find  them.  Hence  I  arrive  at  this 
conclusion:  the  White  Butterfly,  who  is  fitful 
in  her  flight,  chooses  cabbage  first,  to  dab  her 
eggs  upon,  and  different  Cruciferas  next, 
varying  greatly  in  appearance. 

337 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

How  does  the  Pieris  manage  to  know  her 
way  about  her  botanical  domain?  We  have 
seen  the  Larini,1  those  explorers  of  fleshy 
receptacles  with  an  artichoke  flavour,  astonish 
us  with  their  knowledge  of  the  flora  of  the 
thistle  tribe;  but  their  lore  might,  at  a  pinch, 
be  explained  by  the  method  followed  at  the 
moment  of  housing  the  egg.  With  their 
rostrum,  they  prepare  niches  and  dig  out 
basins  in  the  receptacle  exploited  and  con- 
sequently they  taste  the  thing  a  little  before 
entrusting  their  eggs  to  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Butterfly,  a  nectar-drinker,  makes 
not  the  least  enquiry  into  the  savoury  qualities 
of  the  leafage;  at  most,  dipping  her  proboscis 
into  the  flowers,  she  abstracts  a  mouthful  of 
syrup.  This  means  of  investigation,  more- 
over, would  be  of  no  use  to  her,  for  the  plant 
selected  for  the  establishing  of  her  family  is, 
for  the  most  part,  not  yet  in  flower.  The 
mother  flits  for  a  moment  around  the  plant; 
and  that  swift  examination  is  enough:  the 
emission  of  eggs  takes  place  if  the  provender 
be  found  suitable. 

The  botanist,  to  recognize  a  crucifer,  re- 

1A  species  of  Weevils  found  on  thistle-heads. — Trans- 
Igor's  Note. 

338 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

quires  the  indications  provided  by  the  flower. 
Here  the  Pieris  surpasses  us.  She  does  not 
consult  the  seed-vessel,  to  see  if  it  be  long  or 
short,  nor  yet  the  petals,  four  in  number  and 
arranged  in  a  cross,  because  the  plant,  as  a 
rule,  is  not  in  flower ;  and  still  she  recognizes 
off-hand  what  suits  her  caterpillars,  in  spite 
of  profound  differences  that  would  embarrass 
any  but  a  botanical  expert. 

Unless  the  Pieris  has  an  innate  power  of 
discrimination  to  guide  her,  it  is  impossible 
to  understand  the  great  extent  of  her  vegetable 
realm.  She  needs  for  her  family  Cruciferae, 
nothing  but  Cruciferae;  and  she  knows  this 
group  of  plants  to  perfection.  I  have  been  an 
enthusiastic  botanist  for  half  a  century  and 
more.  Nevertheless,  to  discover  if  this  or 
that  plant,  new  to  me,  is  or  is  not  one  of  the 
Cruciferae,  in  the  absence  of  flowers  and  fruits 
I  should  have  more  faith  in  the  Butterfly's 
statements  than  in  all  the  learned  records  of 
the  books.  Where  science  is  apt  to  make 
mistakes,  instinct  is  infallible. 

The  Pieris  has  two  families  a  year:  one  in 
April  and  May,  the  other  in  September.  The 
cabbage-patches  are  renewed  in  those  same 
months.  The  Butterfly's  calendar  tallies  with 

339 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

the  gardener's :  the  moment  that  provisions 
are  in  sight,  consumers  are  forthcoming  for 
the  feast. 

The  eggs  are  a  bright  orange-yellow  and 
do  not  lack  prettiness  when  examined  under 
the  lens.  They  are  blunted  cones,  ranged  side 
by  side  on  their  round  base  and  adorned  with 
finely-scored  longitudinal  ridges.  They  are 
collected  in  slabs,  sometimes  on  the  upper 
surface,  when  the  leaf  that  serves  as  a  sup- 
port is  spread  wide,  sometimes  on  the  lower 
surface  when  the  leaf  is  pressed  to  the  next 
ones.  Their  number  varies  considerably. 
Slabs  of  a  couple  of  hundred  are  pretty  fre- 
quent; isolated  eggs,  or  eggs  collected  in  small 
groups,  are,  on  the  contrary,  rare.  The 
mother's  output  is  affected  by  the  degree  of 
quietness  at  the  moment  of  laying. 

The  outer  circumference  of  the  group  is 
irregularly  formed,  but  the  inside  presents  a 
certain  order.  The  eggs  are  here  arranged 
in  straight  rows  backing  against  one  another 
in  such  a  way  that  each  egg  finds  a  double 
support  in  the  preceding  row.  This  alter- 
nation, without  being  of  an  irreproachable 
precision,  gives  a  fairly  stable  equilibrium  to 
the  whole. 

340 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

To  see  the  mother  at  her  laying  is  no  easy 
matter:  when  examined  too  closely,  the  Pieris 
decamps  at  once.  The  structure  of  the  work, 
however,  reveals  the  order  of  the  operations 
pretty  clearly.  The  ovipositor  swings  slowly 
first  in  this  direction,  then  in  that,  by  turns; 
and  a  new  egg  is  lodged  in  each  space  be- 
tween two  adjoining  eggs  in  the  previous  row. 
The  extent  of  the  oscillation  determines  the 
length  of  the  row,  which  is  longer  or  shorter 
according  to  the  layer's  fancy. 

The  hatching  takes  place  in  about  a  week. 
It  is  almost  simultaneous  for  the  whole  mass : 
as  soon  as  one  caterpillar  comes  out  of  its  egg, 
the  others  come  out  also,  as  though  the  natal 
impulse  were  communicated  from  one  to  the 
other.  In  the  same  way,  in  the  nest  of  the 
Praying  Mantis,  a  warning  seems  to  be 
spread  abroad,  arousing  every  one  of  the 
population.  It  is  a  wave  propagated  in  all 
directions  from  the  point  first  struck. 

The  egg  does  not  open  by  means  of  a  dehis- 
cence  similar  to  that  of  the  vegetable-pods 
whose  seeds  have  attained  maturity;  it  is  the 
new-born  grub  itself  that  contrives  an  exit- 
way  by  gnawing  a  hole  in  its  enclosure.  In 
this  manner,  it  obtains  near  the  top  of  the 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

cone  a  symmetrical  dormer-window,  clean- 
edged,  with  no  joins  nor  unevenness  of  any 
kind,  showing  that  this  part  of  the  wall 
has  been  nibbled  away  and  swallowed.  But 
for  this  breach,  which  is  just  wide  enough  for 
the  deliverance,  the  egg  remains  intact,  stand- 
ing firmly  on  its  base.  It  is  now  that  the  lens 
is  best  able  to  take  in  its  elegant  structure. 
What  it  sees  is  a  bag  made  of  ultra-fine  gold- 
beater's-skin,  translucent,  stiff  and  white,  re- 
taining the  complete  form  of  the  original 
egg.  A  score  of  streaked  and  knotted  lines 
run  from  the  top  to  the  base.  It  is  the  wiz- 
ard's pointed  cap,  the  mitre  with  the  grooves 
carved  into  jewelled  chaplets.  All  said, 
the  Cabbage-caterpillar's  birth-casket  is  an  ex- 
quisite work  of  art. 

The  hatching  of  the  lot  is  finished  in  a 
couple  of  hours  and  the  swarming  family 
musters  on  the  layer  of  swaddling-clothes, 
still  in  the  same  position.  For  a  long  time, 
before  descending  to  the  fostering  leaf,  it 
lingers  on  this  kind  of  hot-bed,  is  even  very 
busy  there.  Busy  with  what?  It  is  browsing 
a  strange  kind  of  grass,  the  handsome  mitres 
that  remain  standing  on  end.  Slowly  and 
methodically,  from  top  to  base,  the  new-born 
342 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

grubs  nibble  the  wallets  whence  they  have  just 
emerged.  By  to-morrow,  nothing  is  left  of 
these  but  a  pattern  of  round  dots,  the  bases 
of  the  vanished  sacks. 

As  his  first  mouthfuls,  therefore,  the  Cab- 
bage-caterpillar eats  the  membranous  wrapper 
of  his  egg.  This  is  a  regulation  diet,  for  I 
have  never  seen  one  of  the  little  grubs  allow 
itself  to  be  tempted  by  the  adjacent  green 
stuff  before  finishing  the  ritual  repast  whereat 
skin  bottles  furnish  forth  the  feast.  It  is  the 
first  time  that  I  have  seen  a  larva  make  a  meal 
of  the  sack  in  which  it  was  born.  Of  what 
use  can  this  singular  fare  be  to  the  budding 
caterpillar?  I  suspect  as  follows:  the  leaves  of 
the  cabbage  are  waxed  and  slippery  surfaces 
and  nearly  always  slant  considerably.  To 
graze  on  them  without  risking  a  fall,  which 
would  be  fatal  in  earliest  childhood,  is  hardly 
possible  unless  with  moorings  that  afford  a 
steady  support.  What  is  needed  is  bits  of  silk 
stretched  along  the  road  as  fast  as  progress  is 
made,  something  for  the  legs  to  grip,  some- 
thing to  provide  a  good  anchorage  even  when 
the  grub  is  upside  down.  The  silk-tubes, 
where  those  moorings  are  manufactured,  must 
be  very  scantily  supplied  in  a  tiny,  new-born 

343 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

anfmal;  and  it  is  expedient  that  they  be  filled 
without  delay  with  the  aid  of  a  special  form  of 
nourishment.  Then  what  shall  the  nature  of 
the  first  food  be  ?  Vegetable  matter,  slow  to 
elaborate  and  niggardly  in  its  yield,  does  not 
fulfil  the  desired  conditions  at  all  well,  for 
time  presses  and  we  must  trust  ourselves 
safely  to  the  slippery  leaf.  An  animal  diet 
\vould  be  preferable:  it  is  easier  to  digest  and 
undergoes  chemical  changes  in  a  shorter  time. 
The  wrapper  of  the  egg  is  of  a  horny  nature, 
as  silk  itself  is.  It  will  not  take  long  to  trans- 
form the  one  into  the  other.  The  grub  there- 
fore tackles  the  remains  of  its  egg  and  turns 
it  into  silk  to  carry  with  it  on  its  first  journeys. 

If  my  surmise  is  well-founded,  there  is 
reason  to  believe  that,  with  a  view  to  speedily 
filling  the  silk-glands  to  which  they  look  to 
supply  them  with  ropes,  other  caterpillars  be- 
ginning their  existence  on  smooth  and  steeply- 
slanting  leaves  also  take  as  their  first  mouth- 
ful the  membranous  sack  which  is  all  that  re- 
mains of  the  egg. 

The  whole  of  the  platform  of  birth-sacks 
which  was  the  first  camping-ground  of  the 
White  Butterfly's  family  is  razed  to  the 
ground;  naught  remains  but  the  round  marks 

344 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

of  the  individual  pieces  that  composed  it.  The 
structure  of  piles  has  disappeared;  the  prints 
left  by  the  piles  remain.  The  little  caterpil- 
lars are  now  on  the  level  of  the  leaf  which 
shall  henceforth  feed  them.  They  are  a  pale 
orange-yellow,  with  a  sprinkling  of  white 
bristles.  The  head  is  a  shiny  black  and  re- 
markably powerful;  it  already  gives  signs  of 
the  coming  gluttony.  The  little  animal 
measures  scarcely  two  millimetres1  in  length. 

The  troop  begins  its  steadying-work  as  soon 
as  it  comes  into  contact  with  its  pasturage,  the 
green  cabbage-leaf.  Here,  there,  in  its  im- 
mediate neighbourhood,  each  grub  emits  from 
its  spinning-glands  short  cables  so  slender  that 
it  takes  an  attentive  lens  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
them.  This  is  enough  to  ensure  the  equili- 
brium of  the  almost  imponderable  atom. 

The   vegetarian    meal    now    begins.      The 
grub's   length   promptly   increases    from   two 
millimetres  to  four.  Soon,  a  moult  takes  place 
which    alters    its    costume :    its   skin   becomes 
speckled,   on   a   pale-yellow  ground,   with   a 
number  of  black  dots  intermingled  with  white 
bristles.    Three  or  four  days  of  rest  are  neces- 
sary   after    the    fatigue    of   breaking    cover. 
1.o;8  inch. — Translator's  Note. 
345 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

When  this  is  over,  the  hunger-fit  starts  that 
will  make  a  ruin  of  the  cabbage  within  a  few 
weeks. 

What  an  appetite !  What  a  stomach,  work- 
ing continuously  day  and  night!  It  is  a 
devouring  laboratory,  through  which  the 
foodstuffs  merely  pass,  transformed  at  once. 
I  serve  up  to  my  caged  herd  a  bunch  of 
leaves  picked  from  among  the  biggest :  two 
hours  later,  nothing  remains  but  the  thick 
midribs;  and  even  these  are  attacked  when 
there  is  any  delay  in  renewing  the  victuals. 
At  this  rate,  a  "hundredweight-cabbage," 
doled  out  leaf  by  leaf,  would  not  last  my 
menagerie  a  week. 

The  gluttonous  animal,  therefore,  when  it 
swarms  and  multiplies,  is  a  scourge.  How 
are  we  to  protect  our  gardens  against  it?  In 
the  days  of  Pliny,  the  great  Latin  naturalist, 
a  stake  was  set  up  in  the  middle  of  the  cab- 
bage-bed to  be  preserved;  and  on  this  stake 
was  fixed  a  Horse's  skull  bleached  in  the  sun : 
a  Mare's  skull  was  considered  even  better. 
This  sort  of  bogey  was  supposed  to  ward  off 
the  devouring  brood. 

My  confidence  in  this  preservative  is  but  an 
indifferent  one;  mv  reason  for  mentioning  it 
346 


The  Cabbage-caterpillai 

is  that  it  reminds  me  of  a  custom  still  observed 
in  our  own  days,  at  least  in  my  part  of  the 
country.  Nothing  is  so  long-lived  as  absurd 
ity.  Tradition  has  retained,  in  a  simplified 
form,  the  ancient  defensive  apparatus  of 
which  Pliny  speaks.  For  the  Horse's  skull 
our  people  have  substituted  an  eggshell  on  the 
top  of  a  switch  stuck  among  the  cabbages.  It 
is  easier  to  arrange;  also,  it  is  quite  as  useful, 
that  is  to  say,  it  has  no  effect  whatever. 

Everything,  even  the  nonsensical,  is  capable 
of  explanation  with  a  little  credulity.  When 
I  question  the  peasants,  our  neighbours,  they 
tell  me  that  the  effect  of  the  eggshell  is  as 
simple  as  can  be:  the  Butterflies,  attracted  by 
the  whiteness,  come  and  lay  their  eggs  on  it. 
Broiled  by  the  sun  and  lacking  all  nourishment 
on  that  thankless  support,  the  little  caterpil- 
lars die;  and  that  makes  so  many  fewer. 

I  insist;  I  ask  them  if  they  have  ever  seen 
slabs  of  eggs  or  masses  of  young  caterpillars 
on  those  white  shells. 

"Never,"  they  reply,  with  one  voice. 

"Well,  then?" 

"It  was  done  in  the  old  days  and  so  we  go 
on  doing  it:  that's  all  we  know;  and  tha*-'c 
enough  for  us." 

347 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

I  leave  it  at  that,  persuaded  that  the  me- 
mory of  the  Horse's  skull  used  once  upon  a 
time  is  ineradicable,  like  all  the  rustic  absurd- 
ities implanted  by  the  ages. 

We  have,  when  all  is  said,  but  one  means 
of  protection,  which  is  to  watch  and  inspect 
the  cabbage-leaves  assiduously  and  crush  the 
slabs  of  eggs  between  our  finger  and  thumb 
and  the  caterpillars  with  our  feet.  Nothing 
is  so  effective  as  this  method,  which  makes 
great  demands  on  one's  time  and  vigilance. 
What  pains  to  obtain  an  unspoilt  cab- 
bage! And  what  a  debt  do  we  not  owe 
to  those  humble  scrapers  of  the  soil,  those 
ragged  heroes  who  provide  us  with  the  where- 
withal to  live! 

To  eat  and  digest,  to  accumulate  reserves 
whence  the  Butterfly  will  issue:  that  is  the 
caterpillar's  one  and  only  business.  The  Cab- 
bage-caterpillar performs  it  with  insatiable 
gluttony.  Incessantly  it  browses,  incessantly 
digests:  the  supreme  felicity  of  an  animal 
which  is  little  more  than  an  intestine.  There 
is  never  a  distraction,  unless  it  be  certain  see- 
saw movements  which  are  particularly  curious 
when  several  caterpillars  are  grazing  side  by 
side,  abreast.  Then,  at  intervals,  all  the  heads 

34* 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

in  the  row  are  briskly  lifted  and  .as  briskly 
lowered,  time  after  time,  with  an  automatic 
precision  worthy  of  a  Prussian  drill-ground. 
Can  it  be  their  method  of  intimidating  an 
always  •possible  aggressor?  Can  it  be  a 
manifestation  of  gaiety,  when  the  wanton  sun 
warms  their  full  paunches?  Whether  sign  of 
fear  or  sign  of  bliss,  this  is  the  only  exercise 
that  the  gluttons  allow  themselves  until  the 
proper  degree  of  plumpness  is  attained. 

After  a  month's  grazing,  the  voracious  ap- 
petite of  my  caged  herd  is  assuaged.  The 
caterpillars  climb  the  trelliswork  in  every 
direction,  walk  about  anyhow,  with  their  fore- 
part raised  and  searching  space.  Here  and 
there,  as  they  pass,  the  swaying  herd  put 
forth  a  thread.  They  wander  restlessly, 
anxiously  to  travel  afar.  The  exodus  now 
prevented  by  the  trellised  enclosure  I  once  saw 
under  excellent  conditions.  At  the  advent  of 
the  cold  weather,  I  had  placed  a  few  cabbage- 
stalks,  covered  with  caterpillars,  in  a  small 
greenhouse.  Those  who  saw  the  common 
kitchen  vegetable  sumptuously  lodged  under 
glass,  in  the  company  of  the  pelargonium  and 
the  Chinese  primrose,  were  astonished  at  my 
curious  fancy.  I  let  them  smile.  I  had  my 

349 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

plans :  I  wanted  to  find  out  how  the  family  of 
the  Large  White  Butterfly  behaves  when  the 
cold  weather  sets  in.  Things  happened  just 
as  I  wished.  At  the  end  of  November,  the 
caterpillars,  having  grown  to  the  desired  ex- 
tent, left  the  cabbages,  one  by  one,  and  began 
to  roam  about  the  walls.  None  of  them  fixed 
himself  there  or  made  preparations  for  the 
transformation.  I  suspected  that  they  wanted 
the  choice  of  a  spot  in  the  open  air,  exposed  to 
all  the  rigours  of  winter.  I  therefore  left 
the  door  of  the  hothouse  open.  Soon,*  the 
whole  crowd  had  disappeared. 

I  found  them  dispersed  all  over  the  neigh- 
bouring walls,  some  thirty  yards  off.  The 
thrust  of  a  ledge,  the  eaves  formed  by  a  pro- 
jecting bit  of  mortar  served  them  as  a  shelter 
where  the  chrysalid  moult  took  place  and 
where  the  winter  was  passed.  The  Cabbage- 
caterpillar  possesses  a  robust  constitution,  un- 
susceptible to  torrid  heat  or  icy  cold.  All 
that  he  needs  for  his  metamorphosis  is  an  airy 
lodging,  free  from  permanent  damp. 

The  inmates  of  my  fold,  therefore,  move 
about  for  a  few  days  on  the  trelliswork, 
anxious  to  travel  afar  in  search  of  a  wall. 
Finding  none  and  realizing  that  time  presses, 


Tne  Cabbage-caterpillar 

they  resign  themselves.  Each  one,  supporting 
himself  on  the  trellis,  first  weaves  around  him- 
self a  thin  carpet  of  white  silk,  which  will 
form  the  sustaining  layer  at  the  time  of  the 
laborious  and  delicate  work  of  the  nymphosis. 
He  fixes  his  rear-end  to  this  base  by  a  silk  pad 
and  his  fore-part  by  a  strap  that  passes  under 
his  shoulders  and  is  fixed  on  either  side  to  the 
carpet.  Thus  slung  from  his  three  fastenings, 
he  strips  himself  of  his  larval  apparel  and 
turns  into  a  chrysalis  in  the  open  a'ir,  with  no 
protection  save  that  of  the  wall,  which  the 
caterpillar  would  certainly  have  found  had  I 
not  interfered. 

Of  a  surety,  he  would  be  short-sighted  in- 
deed that  pictured  a  world  of  good  things 
prepared  exclusively  for  our  advantage.  The 
earth,  the  great  foster-mother,  has  a  generous 
breast.  At  the  very  moment  when  nourishing 
matter  is  created,  even  though  it  be  with  our 
own  zealous  aid,  she  summons  to  the  feast 
host  upon  host  of  consumers,  who  are  all  the 
more  numerous  and  enterprising  in  proportion 
as  the  table  is  more  amply  spread.  The  cherry 
of  our  orchards  is  excellent  eating:  a  maggot 
contends  with  us  for  its  possession.  In  vain 
do  we  weigh  suns  and  planets :  our  supremacy, 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

which  fathoms  the  universe,  cannot  prevent  a 
wretched  worm  from  levying  its  toll  on  the 
delicious  fruit.  We  make  ourselves  at  home 
in  a  cabbage-bed :  the  sons  of  the  Pieris  make 
themselves  at  home  there  too.  Preferring 
broccoli  to  wild  radish,  they  profit  where  we 
have  profited;  and  we  have  no  remedy  against 
their  competition  save  caterpillar-raids  and 
egg-crushing,  a  thankless,  tedious  and  none 
too  efficacious  work. 

Every  creature  has  its  claims  on  life.  The 
Cabbage-caterpillar  eagerly  puts  forth  his 
own,  so  much  so  that  the  cultivation  of  the 
precious  plant  would  be  endangered  if  others 
concerned  did  not  take  part  in  its  defence. 
These  others  are  the  auxiliaries,1  our  helpers 
from  necessity  and  not  from  sympathy.  The 
words  friend  and  foe,  auxiliaries  and  ravagers 
are  here  the  mere  conventions  of  a  language 
not  always  adapted  to  render  the  exact  truth. 
He  is  our  foe  who  eats  or  attacks  our  crops; 
our  friend  is  he  who  feeds  upon  our  foes. 
Everything  is  reduced  to  a  frenzied  contest 
of  appetites. 

1The  author  employs  this  word  to  denote  the  insects 
that  are  helpful,  while  describing  as  "ravagers"  the  in- 
sects that  are  hurtful  to  the  farmer's  crops. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

352 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

In  the  name  of  the  might  that  is  mine,  of 
trickery,  of  highway  robbery,  clear  out  of 
that,  you,  and  make  room  for  me :  give  me 
your  seat  at  the  banquet!  That  is  the  inex- 
orable law  in  the  world  of  animals  and  more 
or  less,  alas,  in  our  own  world  as  well ! 

Now,  among  our  entomological  auxiliaries,, 
the  smallest  in  size  are  the  best  at  their  work. 
One  of  them  is  charged  with  watching  over 
the  cabbages.  She  is  so  small,  she  works  so 
discreetly  that  the  gardener  does  not  know 
her,  has  not  even  heard  of  her.  Were  he  to 
see  her  by  accident,  flitting  around  the  plant 
which  she  protects,  he  would  take  no  notice 
of  her,  would  not  suspect  the  service  rendered. 
I  propose  to  set  forth  the  tiny  midget's 
deserts. 

Scientists  call  her  Microgaster  glomeratus. 
What  exactly  was  in  the  mind  of  the  author 
of  the  name  Microgaster,  which  means  little 
belly?  Did  he  intend  to  allude  to  the  insig- 
nificance of  the  abdomen?  Not  so.  How- 
ever slight  the  belly  may  be,  the  insect  never- 
theless possesses  one,  correctly  proportioned 
to  the  rest  of  the  body,  so  that  the  classic  de- 
nomination, far  from  giving  us  any  informa- 
tion, might  mislead  us,  were  we  to  trust  it 

353 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

wholly.  Nomenclature,  which  changes  from 
day  to  day  and  becomes  more  and  more  caco- 
phonous, is  an  unsafe  guide.  Instead  of  ask- 
ing the  animal  what  its  name  is,  let  us  begin 
by  asking: 

"What  can  you  do?  What  is  your  busi- 
ness?" 

Well,  the  Microgaster's  business  is  to  ex- 
ploit the  Cabbage-caterpillar,  a  clearly-defined 
business,  admitting  of  no  possible  confusion. 
Would  we  behold  her  works?  In  the  spring, 
let  us  inspect  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
kitchen-garden.  Be  our  eye  never  so  unob- 
servant, we  shall  notice  against  th^  walls  or 
on  the  withered  grasses  at  the  foot  of  the 
hedges  some  very  small  yellow  cocoons, 
heaped  into  masses  the  size  of  a  hazel-nut. 
Beside  each  group  lies  a  Cabbage-caterpillar, 
sometimes  dying,  sometimes  dead  and  always 
presenting  a  most  tattered  appearance.  These 
cocoons  are  the  work  of  the  Microgaster's 
family,  hatched  or  on  the  point  of  hatching 
into  the  perfect  stage;  the  caterpillar  is  the 
dish  whereon  that  family  has  fed  during  its 
larval  state.  The  epithet  glomeratus,  which 
accompanies  the  name  of  Microgaster,  sug- 
gests this  conglomeration  of  cocoons.  Let  us 

354 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar    « 

collect  the  clusters  as  they  are,  without  seeking 
to  separate  them,  an  operation  which  would 
demand  both  patience  and  dexterity,  for  the 
cocoons  are  closely  united  by  the  inextricable 
tangle  of  their  surface-threads.  In  May,  a 
swarm  of  pigmies  will  sally  forth,  ready  to 
get  to  business  in  the  cabbages. 

Colloquial  language  uses  the  terms  Midge 
and  Gnat  to  describe  the  tiny  insects  which  we 
often  see  dancing  in  a  ray  of  sunlight.  There 
is  something  of  everything  in  those  aerial  bal- 
lets. It  is  possible  that  the  persecutrix  of  the 
Cabbage-caterpillar  is  there,  along  with  many 
another;  but  the  name  of  Midge  cannot  pro- 
perly be  applied  to  her.  He  who  says  Midge 
says  Fly,  Dipteron,  two-winged  insect;  and 
our  friend  has  four  wings,  one  and  all 
adapted  for  flying.  By  virtue  of  this  charac- 
teristic and  others  no  less  important,  she  be- 
longs to  the  order  of  Hymenoptera.1  No 
matter:  as  our  language  possesses  no  more 
precise  term  outside  the  scientific  vocabulary, 
let  us  use  the  expression  Midge,  which  pretty 
well  conveys  the  general  idea.  Our  Midge, 
the  Microgaster,  is  the  size  of  an  average 

'This  order  includes  the  Ichneumon-flies,  of  whom  the 
Microgaster  is  one. — Translator's  Note, 

355 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Gnat.  She  measures  3  or  4  millimetres.1  The 
two  sexes  are  equally  numerous  and  wear  the 
same  costume,  a  black  uniform,  all  but  the 
legs,  which  are  pale  red.  In  spite  of  this  like- 
ness, they  are  easily  distinguished.  The  male 
has  an  abdomen  which  is  slightly  flattened  and 
moreover  curved  at  the  tip ;  the  female,  before 
the  laying,  has  hers  full  and  perceptibly  dis- 
tended by  its  ovular  contents.  This  rapid 
sketch  of  the  insect  should  be  enough  for 
our  purpose. 

If  we  wish  to  know  the  grub  and  especially 
to  inform  ourselves  of  its  manner  of  living, 
it  is  advisable  to  rear  in  a  cage  a  numerous 
herd  of  Cabbage-caterpillars.  Whereas  a 
direct  search  on  the  cabbages  in  our  garden 
would  give  us  but  a  difficult  and  uncertain 
harvest,  by  this  means  we  shall  daily  have  as 
many  as  we  wish  before  our  eyes. 

In  the  course  of  June,  which  is  the  time 
when  the  caterpillars  quit  their  pastures  and 
go  far  afield  to  settle  on  some  wall  or  other, 
those  in  my  fold,  finding  nothing  better, 
climb  to  the  dome  of  the  cage  to  make  their 
preparations  and  to  spin  a  supporting  network 
for  the  chrysalid's  needs.  Among  these  spin- 

1.H7to  .156  inch.— Translator's  Note. 
356 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

ners  we  see  some  weaklings  working  listlessly 
at  their  carpet.  Their  appearance  makes  us 
deem  them  in  the  grip  of  a  mortal  disease. 
I  take  a  few  of  them  and  open  their  bellies, 
using  a  needle  by  way  of  a  scalpel.  What 
comes  out  is  a  bunch  of  green  entrails,  soaked 
in  a  bright  yellow  fluid,  which  is  really  the 
creature's  blood.  These  tangled  intestines 
swarm  with  little,  lazy  grubs,  varying  greatly 
in  number,  from  ten  or  twenty  at  least  to 
sometimes  half-a-hundred.  They  are  the  off- 
spring of  the  Microgaster. 

What  do  they  feed  on?  The  lens  makes 
conscientious  enquiries;  nowhere  does  it  man- 
age to  show  me  the  vermin  attacking  solid 
nourishment,  fatty  tissues,  muscles  or  other 
parts;  nowhere  do  1  see  them  bite,  gnaw  or 
dissect.  The  following  experiment  will  tell 
us  more  fully :  I  pour  into  a  watch-glass  the 
crowds  extracted  from  the  hospitable  paun- 
ches. I  flood  them  with  caterpillar's  blood 
obtained  by  simple  pricks;  I  place  the  pre- 
paration under  a  glass  bell-jar,  in  a  moist 
atmosphere,  to  prevent  evaporation;  1  repeat 
the  nourishing  bath  by  means  of  fresh  bleed- 
ings and  give  them  the  stimulant  which  they 
would  have  gained  from  the  living  caterpillar. 

357 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Thanks  to  these  precautions,  my  charges  have 
all  the  appearance  of  excellent  health;  they 
drink  and  thrive.  But  this  state  of  things  can- 
not last  long.  Soon  ripe  for  the  transform- 
ation, my  grubs  leave  the  dining-room  of  the 
watch-glass  as  they  would  have  left  the  cater- 
pillar's belly;  they  come  to  the  ground  to  try 
and  weave  their  tiny  cocoons.  They  fail  in 
the  attempt  and  perish.  They  have  missed  a 
suitable  support,  that  is  to  say,  the  silky 
carpet  provided  by  the  dying  caterpillar.  No 
matter:  I  have  seen  enough  to  convince  me. 
The  larvae  of  the  Microgaster  do  not  eat  in 
the  strict  sense  of  the  word:  they  live  on 
soup;  and  that  soup  is  the  caterpillar's 
blood. 

Examine  the  parasites  closely  and  you  shall 
see  that  their  diet  is  bound  to  be  a  liquid  one. 
They  are  little  white  grubs,  neatly  segmented, 
with  a  pointed  fore-part  splashed  with  tiny 
black  marks,  as  though  the  atom  had  been 
slaking  its  thirst  in  a  drop  of  ink.  It  moves 
its  hind-quarters  slowly,  without  shifting  its 
position.  I  place  it  under  the  microscope. 
The  mouth  is  a  pore,  devoid  of  any  apparatus 
for  disintegration-work:  it  has  no  fangs,  no 
horny  nippers,  no  mandibles;  its  attack  is  just 
358 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

a  kiss.  It  does  not  chew,  it  sucks,  it  takes 
discreet  sips  at  the  moisture  all  around  it. 

The  fact  that  it  refrains  entirely  from  bi- 
ting is  confirmed  by  my  autopsy  of  the  stricken 
caterpillars.  In  the  patient's  belly,  notwith- 
standing the  number  of  nurselings  who  hardly 
leave  room  for  the  nurse's  entrails,  every- 
thing is  in  perfect  order;  nowhere  do  we  see  a 
trace  of  mutilation.  Nor  does  aught  on  the 
outside  betray  any  havoc  within.  The  ex- 
ploited caterpillars  graze  and  move  about 
peacefully,  giving  no  sign  of  pain.  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  distinguish  them  from  the 
unscathed  ones  in  respect  of  appetite  and  un- 
troubled digestion. 

When  the  time  approaches  to  weave  the 
carpet  for  the  support  of  the  chrysalis,  an 
appearance  of  emaciation  at  last  points  to  the 
evil  that  is  at  their  vitals.  They  spin  never- 
theless. They  are  stoics  who  do  not  forget 
their  duty  in  the  hour  of  death.  At  last,  they 
expire,  quite  softly,  not  of  any  wounds,  but 
of  anaemia,  even  as  a  lamp  goes  out  when  the 
oil  comes  to  an  end.  And  it  has  to  be.  The 
living  caterpillar,  capable  of  feeding  itself 
and  forming  blood,  is  a  necessity  for  the  wel- 
fare of  the  grubs;  it  has  to  last  about  a 

359 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

month,  until  the  Microgaster's  offspring  have 
achieved  their  full  growth.  The  two  calen- 
dars synchronize  in  a  remarkable  way.  When 
the  caterpillar  leaves  off  eating  and  makes  its 
preparations  for  the  metamorphosis,  the  para- 
sites are  ripe  for  the  exodus.  The  bottle 
dries  up  when  the  drinkers  cease  to  need  it; 
but  until  that  moment  it  must  remain  more  or 
less  well-filled,  although  becoming  limper 
daily.  It  is  important,  therefore,  that  the 
caterpillar's  existence  be  not  endangered  by 
wounds  which,  even  though  very  tiny,  would 
stop  the  working  of  the  blood-fountains. 
With  this  intent,  the  drainers  of  the  bottle  are, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking,  muzzled;  they  have 
by  way  of  a  mouth  a  pore  that  sucks  without 
bruising. 

The  dying  caterpillar  continues  to  lay  the 
silk  of  his  carpet  with  a  slow  oscillation  of  the 
head.  The  moment  now  comes  for  the  para- 
sites to  emerge.  This  happens  in  June  and 
generally  at  nightfall.  A  breach  is  made  on 
the  ventral  surface  or  else  in  the  sides,  never 
on  the  back:  one  breach  only,  contrived  at  a 
point  of  minor  resistance,  at  the  junction  of 
two  segments;  for  it  is  bound  to  be  a  toilsome 
business,  in  the  absence  of  a  set  of  filing-tools. 
360 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

Perhaps  the  worms  take  one  another's  places 
at  the  point  attacked  and  come  by  turns  to 
work  at  it  with  a  kiss. 

In  one  short  spell,  the  whole  tribe  issues 
through  this  single  opening  and  is  soon 
wriggling  about,  perched  on  the  surface  of 
the  caterpillar.  The  lens  cannot  perceive  the 
hole,  which  closes  on  the  instant.  There  is 
not  even  a  haemorrhage:  the  bottle  has  been 
drained  too  thoroughly.  You  must  press  it 
between  your  fingers  to  squeeze  out  a  feu- 
drops  of  moisture  and  thus  discover  the  spot 
of  exit. 

Around  the  caterpillar,  who  is  not  always 
quite  dead  and  who  sometimes  even  goes  on 
weaving  his  carpet  a  moment  longer,  the  ver- 
min at  once  begin  to  work  at  their  cocoons. 
The  straw-coloured  thread,  drawn  from  the 
silk-glands  by  a  backward  jerk  of  the  head, 
is  first  fixed  to  the  white  network  of  the  cater- 
pillar and  then  produces  adjacent  warp-beams, 
so  that,  by  mutual  entanglements,  the  in- 
dividual works  are  welded  together  and  form 
an  agglomeration  in  which  each  of  the  worms 
has  its  own  cabin.  For  the  moment,  what  is 
woven  is  not  the  real  cocoon,  but  a  general 
scaffolding  which  will  facilitate  the  construc- 
361 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

tion  of  the  separate  shells.  All  these  frames 
rest  upon  those  adjoining  and,  mixing  up  their 
threads,  become  a  common  edifice  wherein 
each  grub  contrives  a  shelter  for  itself.  Here 
at  last  the  real  cocoon  is  spun,  a  pretty  little 
piece  of  closely-woven  work. 

In  my  rearing-jars,  I  obtain  as  many  groups 
of  those  tiny  shells  as  my  future  experiments 
can  wish  for.  Three-fourths  of  the  caterpil- 
lars have  supplied  me  with  them,  so  ruthless 
has  been  the  toll  of  the  spring  births.  I  lodge 
these  groups,  one  by  one,  in  separate  glass 
tubes,  thus  forming  a  collection  on  which  I 
can  draw  at  will,  while,  in  view  of  my  ex- 
periments, I  keep  under  observation  the  whole 
swarm  produced  by  one  caterpillar. 

The  adult  Microgaster  appears  a  fortnight 
later,  in  the  middle  of  June.  There  are  fifty 
in  the  first  tube  examined.  The  riotous  mul- 
titude is  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  pairing- 
season,  for  the  two  sexes  always  figure  among 
the  guests  of  any  one  caterpillar.  What 
animation !  What  an  orgy  of  love !  The 
carnival  of  those  pigmies  bewilders  the  ob- 
server and  makes  his  head  swim. 

Most  of  the  females,  wishful  of  liberty, 
plunge  down  to  the  waist  between  the  glass  of 
362 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

the  tube  and  the  plug  of  cotton-wool  that 
closes  the  end  turned  to  the  light;  but  the 
lower  halves  remain  free  and  form  a  circular 
gallery  in  front  of  which  the  males  hustle  one 
another,  take  one  another's  places  and  hastily 
operate.  Each  bides  his  turn,  each  attends  to 
his  little  matters  for  a  few  moments  and  then 
makes  way  for  his  rivals  and  goes  off  to  start 
again  elsewhere.  The  turbulent  wedding  lasts 
all  the  morning  and  begins  afresh  next  day,  a 
mighty  throng  of  couples  embracing,  separa- 
ting and  embracing  once  more. 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that,  in 
gardens,  the  mated  ones,  finding  themselves  in 
isolated  couples,  would  keep  quieter.  Here, 
in  the  tube,  things  degenerate  into  a  riot  be- 
cause the  assembly  is  too  numerous  for  the 
narrow  space. 

What  is  lacking  to  complete  its  happiness? 
Apparently,  a  little  food,  a  few  sugary  mouth- 
fuls  extracted  from  the  flowers.  I  serve  up 
some  provisions  in  the  tubes :  not  drops  of 
honey,  in  which  the  puny  creatures  would  get 
stuck,  but  little  strips  of  paper  spread  with 
that  dainty.  They  come  to  them,  take  their 
stand  on  them  and  refresh  themselves.  The 
fare  appears  to  agree  with  them.  With  this 

363 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

diet,  renewed  as  the  strips  dry  up,  I  can  keep 
them  in  very  good  condition  until  the  end  of 
my  inquisition. 

There  is  another  arrangement  to  be  made. 
The  colonists  in  my  spare  tubes  are  restless 
and  quick  of  flight;  they  will  have  to  be  trans- 
ferred presently  to  sundry  vessels  without  my 
risking  the  loss  of  a  good  number,  or  even  the 
whole  lot,  a  loss  which  my  hands,  my  forceps 
and  other  means  of  coercion  would  be  unable 
to  prevent  by  checking  the  nimble  movements 
of  the  tiny  prisoners.  The  irresistible  attrac- 
tion of  the  sunlight  comes  to  my  aid.  If  I  lay 
one  of  my  tubes  horizontally  on  the  table, 
turning  one  end  towards  the  full  light  of  a 
sunny  window,  the  captives  at  once  make  for 
this  brighter  end  and  play  about  there  for  a 
long  while,  without  seeking  to  retreat.  If  I 
turn  the  tube  in  the  opposite  direction,  the 
crowd  immediately  shifts  its  quarters  and  col- 
lects at  the  other  end.  The  brilliant  sunlight 
is  its  great  joy.  With  this  bait,  I  can  send 
it  whithersoever  I  please. 

We  will  therefore  place  the  new  receptacle, 
jar  or  test-tube,  on  the  table,  pointing  the 
closed  end  towards  the  window.  At  its  mouth, 
we  open  one  of  the  full  tubes.  No  other 

364 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

precaution  is  needed:  even  though  the  mouth 
leaves  a  large  interval  free,  the  swarm  hastens 
into  the  lighted  chamber.  All  that  remains 
to  be  done  is  to  close  the  apparatus  before 
moving  it.  The  observer  is  now  in  control  of 
the  multitude,  without  appreciable  losses,  and 
is  able  to  question  it  at  will. 

We  will  begin  by  asking : 

"How  do  you  manage  to  lodge  your  germs 
inside  the  caterpillar?" 

This  question  and  others  of  the  same 
category,  which  ought  to  take  precedence  of 
everything  else,  are  generally  neglected  by  the 
impaler  of  insects,  who  cares  more  for  the 
niceties  of  nomenclature  than  for  glorious 
realities.  He  classifies  his  subjects,  dividing 
them  into  regiments  with  barbarous  labels,  a 
work  which  seems  to  him  the  highest  express- 
ion of  entomological  science.  Names,  nothing 
but  names :  the  rest  hardly  counts.  The  per- 
secutor of  the  Pieris  used  to  be  called  Micro- 
gaster,  that  is  to  say,  little  belly:  to-day  she 
is  called  Apantales,  that  is  to  say,  the  incom- 
plete. What  a  fine  step  forward !  We  now 
know  all  about  it ! 

Can  our  friend  at  least  tell  us  how  "the 
little  belly"  or  "the  incomplete"  gets  into  the 
365 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

caterpillar?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  A  book  which, 
judging  by  its  recent  date,  should  be  the  faith- 
ful echo  of  our  actual  knowledge,  informs  us 
that  the  Microgaster  inserts  her  eggs  direct 
into  the  caterpillar's  body.  It  goes  on  to  say 
that  the  parasitic  vermin  inhabit  the  chrysalis, 
whence  they  make  their  way  out  by  perfora- 
ting the  stout  horny  wrapper.  Hundreds  of 
times  have  I  witnessed  the  exodus  of  the 
grubs  ripe  for  weaving  their  cocoons;  and  the 
exit  has  always  been  made  through  the  skin 
of  the  caterpillar  and  never  through  the 
armour  of  the  chrysalis.  The  fact  that  its 
mouth  is  a  mere  clinging  pore,  deprived  of 
any  offensive  weapon,  would  even  lead  me  to 
believe  that  the  grub  is  incapable  of  perfora- 
ting the  chrysalid's  covering. 

This  proved  error  makes  me  doubt  the 
other  proposition,  though  logical,  after  all, 
and  agreeing  with  the  methods  followed  by 
a  host  of  parasites.  No  matter:  my  faith  in 
what  I  read  in  print  is  of  the  slightest;  I 
perfer  to  go  straight  to  facts.  Before  making 
a  statement  of  any  kind,  I  want  to  see,  what 
I  call  seeing.  It  is  a  slower  and  more  labori- 
ous process;  but  it  is  certainly  much  safer. 

I  will  not  undertake  to  lie  in  wait  for  what 
366 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

takes  place  on  the  cabbages  in  the  garden : 
that  method  is  too  uncertain  and  besides  does 
not  lend  itself  to  precise  observation.  As  T 
have  in  hand  the  necessary  materials,  to  wit, 
my  collection  of  tubes  swarming  with  the 
parasites  newly  hatched  into  the  adult  form, 
I  will  operate  on  the  little  table  in  my  animals' 
laboratory.  A  jar  with  a  capacity  of  about  a 
litre1  is  placed  on  the  table,  with  the  bottom 
turned  towards  the  window  in  the  sun.  I  put 
into  it  a  cabbage-leaf  covered  with  caterpil- 
lars, sometimes  fully  developed,  sometimes 
half-way,  sometimes  just  out  of  the  egg.  A 
strip  of  honeyed  paper  will  serve  the  Micro- 
gaster  as  a  dining-room,  if  the  experiment  is 
destined  to  take  some  time.  Lastly,  by  the 
mechod  of  transfer  which  I  described  above, 
T  send  the  inmates  of  one  of  my  tubes  into 
the  apparatus.  Once  the  jar  is  closed,  there 
is  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  let  things  take 
their  course  and  to  keep  an  assiduous  watch, 
for  days  and  weeks,  if  need  be.  Nothing 
worth  remarking  can  escape  me. 

The  caterpillars  graze  placidly,  heedless  of 
their  terrible  attendants.  If  some  giddy-pates 
in  the  turbulent  swarm  pass  over  the  caterpil- 

1About  i%  pints,  or  .22  gallon. — Translator's  Note. 
367 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

Jars'  spines,  these  draw  up  their  fore-part  with 
a  jerk  and  as  suddenly  lower  it  again;  and 
that  is  all :  the  intruders  forthwith  decamp. 
Nor  do  the  latter  seem  to  contemplate  any 
harm :  they  refresh  themselves  on  the  honey- 
smeared  strip,  they  come  and  go  tumultuously. 
Their  short  flights  may  land  them,  now  in 
one  place,  now  in  another,  on  the  browsing 
herd,  but  they  pay  no  attention  to  it.  What 
we  see  is  casual  meetings,  not  deliberate  en- 
counters. 

In  vain  I  change  the  flock  of  caterpillars 
and  vary  their  age;  in  vain  I  change  the  squad 
of  parasites:  in  vain  I  follow  events  in  the 
jar  for  long  hours,  morning  and  evening,  both 
in  a  dim  light  and  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sun : 
I  succeed  in  seeing  nothing,  absolutely  no- 
thing, on  the  parasite's  side,  that  resembles 
an  attack.  No  matter  what  the  ill-informed 
authors  say — ill-informed  because  they  had 
not  the  patience  to  see  for  themselves — the 
conclusion  at  which  I  arrive  is  positive:  to 
inject  the  germs,  the  Microgaster  never  at- 
tacks the  caterpillars. 

The  invasion,  therefore,  is  necessarily  ef- 
fected through  the  Butterfly's  eggs  them- 
selves, as  experiment  will  prove.  My  broad 
368 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

jar  would  tell  against  the  inspection  of  the 
troop,  kept  at  too  great  a  distance  by  the  glass 
enclosure;  and  I  therefore  select  a  tube  an  inch 
wide.  I  place  in  this  a  shred  of  cabbage-leaf, 
bearing  a  slab  of  eggs,  as  laid  by  the  Butter- 
fly. I  next  introduce  the  inmates  of  one  of 
my  spare  vessels.  A  strip  of  paper  smeared 
with  honey  accompanies  the  new  arrivals. 

This  happens  early  in  July.  Soon,  the 
females  are  there,  fussing  about,  sometimes 
to  the  extent  of  blackening  the  whole  slab  of 
yellow  eggs.  They  inspect  the  treasure,  flut- 
ter their  wings  and  brush  their  hind-legs 
against  each  other,  a  sign  of  keen  satisfaction. 
They  sound  the  heap,  probe  the  interstices 
with  their  antennae  and  tap  the  individual 
eggs  with  their  palpi ;  then,  this  one  here,  that 
one  there,  they  quickly  apply  the  tip  of  their 
abdomen  to  the  egg  selected.  Each  time,  we 
see  a  slender,  horny  prickle  darting  from  the 
ventral  surface,  close  to  the  end.  This  is  the 
instrument  that  deposits  the  germ  under  the 
film  of  the  egg;  it  is  the  inoculation-needle. 
The  operation  is  performed  calmly  and  me- 
thodically, even  when  several  mothers  are 
working  at  one  and  the  same  time.  Where 
one  has  been,  a  second  goes,  followed  by  a 

369 


The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar 

third,  a  fourth  and  others  yet,  nor  am  I  able 
definitely  to  see  the  end  of  the  visits  paid  to 
the  same  egg.  Each  time,  the  needle  enters 
and  inserts  a  germ. 

It  is  impossible,  in  such  a  crowd,  for  the  eye 
to  follow  the  successive  mothers  who  hasten 
to  lay  in  each;  but  there  is  one  quite  prac- 
ticable method  by  which  we  can  estimate 
the  number  of  germs  introduced  into  a  single 
egg,  which  is,  later,  to  open  the  ravaged 
caterpillars  and  count  the  worms  which  they 
contain.  A  less  repugnant  means  is  to  num- 
ber the  little  cocoons  heaped  up  around  each 
dead  caterpillar.  The  total  will  tell  us  how- 
many  germs  were  injected,  some  by  the  same 
mother  returning  several  times  to  the  egg 
already  treated,  others  by  different  mothers. 
Well,  the  number  of  these  cocoons  varies 
greatly.  Generally,  it  fluctuates  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  twenty,  but  I  have  come  across 
as  many  as  sixty-five;  and  nothing  tells  me 
that  this  is  the  extreme  limit.  What  hide- 
ous industry  for  the  extermination  of  a  But- 
terfly's progeny ! 

I  am  fortunate  at  this  moment  in  having  a 
highly-cultured  visitor,  versed  in  the  profun- 
dities of  philosophic  thought.  I  make  way 
3?o 


The  Cabbage-caterpillar 

for  him  before  the  apparatus  wherein  the 
Microgaster  is  at  work.  For  an  hour  and 
more,  standing  lens  in  hand,  he,  in  his  turn, 
looks  and  sees  what  I  have  just  seen;  he 
watches  the  layers  who  go  from  one  egg  to  the 
other,  make  their  choice,  draw  their  slender 
lancet  and  prick  what  the  stream  of  passers- 
by,  one  after  the  other,  have  already  pricked. 
Thoughtful  and  a  little  uneasy,  he  puts  down 
his  lens  at  last.  Never  had  he  been  vouch- 
safed so  clear  a  glimpse  as  here,  in  my  finger- 
wide  tube,  of  the  masterly  brigandage  that 
runs  through  all  life  down  to  that  of  the  very 
smallest. 


371 


INDEX 


Adder,  120 

Anisotoma  cinnamomea, 
307 

Ant,   5i«,  52,  322 

Arbutus  Caterpillar,  150- 
160,  172-173 

Arbutus  Liparis  (see  Ar- 
butus Caterpillar) 

Aristotle,    58 

Ass,   73-7+ 

Attacus  pavonia  minor 
(see  Lesser  Peacock 
Moth) 

B 

Bacon-beetle  (see  Der- 
mestes) 

Banded  Monk,  278-299, 
326-330 

Bat,   248,    301 

Bee,  SIB,   147-148,  162,   183 

Beetle  (see  also  the  varie- 
ties), 20 

Bembex,    115 

Blackbird,  151 

Bolboceras  gallicus,  309, 
312-319,  326 

Bombyx  (see  Arbutus 
Caterpillar,  Banded 
Monk,  Neustrian  Bom- 
byx, Pine  Procession- 
ary) 

Brown  Owl,  250 

Brush  Caterpillar  (see  Or- 


Bull-pup,  257 
Buridan,  Jean,  73 
Burying-beetle      (see     also 

Necrophorus),   319 
Butterfly      (see     also      the 

varieties),  182,  227 


\-x 

Cabbage-caterpillar,       172, 
334-362,   365-371 

Calosoma  sychophanta,  94, 
168 

Carrier-pigeon,    301 

Carrion-beetle       (see      Sil- 
pha) 

Cat,   108 

Century  Co.,  7 

Cetonia   floricola,    182-183 

Chalicodoma  (see  als 
Mason-bee  of  th 
Sheds),  301 

Chelonia  caja  (see  Hedge- 
hog  Caterpillar) 

Cicada,  10,  43 

Cock,    108 

Common   Fly   (see  Fly) 

Cricket,  43 

Cuckoo,  94,    168 


o 
the 


Death's-head  Moth,  172 
Dermestes     (see    also     the 

varieties    below),    319- 

325,  328 

Dermestes  Frischii,  323 
Dermestes  pardalis,  323 


373 


Index 


Dermestes  undulatus,  323 
Dioscorides  Pedanius,  148 
Dog,  100,  301,  308,  314- 

315,    318,    320,    324-327 
Donkey    (see  Ass) 
Dor-beetle      (see      Geotru- 

pes) 
Dung-beetle    (see   also    the 

varieties),   309 


Earth-worm,   50 

Earwig,  322 

Eider,  212 

Elm      Tortoiseshell       (see 

Great         Tortoiseshell 

Butterfly) 


Fabre,  Paul,  the  author's 
son,  21,  136-138,  247- 
248,  275 

Field-mouse,  301,  320 

Fly,  195,  324,  355 


Geotrupes,    107,    310 

Gnat,   355-356 

Goldfinch.    185 

Grasshopper  (sec  also 
Vine  Ephippiger),  low 

Great  Grev   Locust,   184 

Great  Pencock  Moth,  41- 
42,  172,  T^i-TSc,  226, 
246-274,  277,  280,  282- 
283,  285,  287-289,  298, 
326-330 

Great  Tortoiseshell  But- 
terfly, 172,  177-181 


Green   Saw-fly,   183 
Ground-beetle,  50 
Guinea-fowl,   108 
Guinea-pig,    180-181 


H 


172 


Heath   Fritillan 

Hedgehog,  320 

Hedgehog  Caterpillar,  135- 

136,  141,  174 
Hen,  108 
Hive-bee,  52-53 
Honey-bee    (see  Bee) 
Horse,  346-348 
Hunting  Wasp  (sr<-  \Va>p) 

I 
Ichneumon-fly,  $Ift 

J 
Jay,  310 


Large    Cabbage     Butterfly, 

Large   White    Butu-rfly 

(see       Cabbage-Cater- 

pillar) 
Larinus,   338 
Lesser  Peacock  Moth,  273- 

278 
Liparis    (see   also   Arbutus 

Caterpillar,     /,.     aiiri- 

flua),   173 
l.iparis  aurifltia, 
Livery        (see 

Bomln  x  ) 
l.i/.ard,  320 
Locust      (see     also     Great 

Grey  Locust),  43*1 


150 

N'eustrian 


374 


Index 


M 

Magpie,  310 

Mantis  (see  Praying  Man- 
tis) 

Mare,    346 

Mason-bee  of  the  Sheds 
(see  also  Chalico- 
doma),  51-53 

Mason-wasp,  4171 

Miall,  Bernard,  7,  ion 

Microgaster  glomeratus, 
353-371 

Midge,  355-356 

Minotaurus  typhceus,  311- 
312 

Mole,   318,   320,   324-326 

Moliere,  Jean  Baptiste 
Poquelin,  147 

Monk   (see  Banded  Monk) 

Montaigne  (Michel  Ey- 
quem  de),  220 

Moth  (see  also  the  varie- 
ties), 177,  l82,  212 

N 

Necrophorus    (see    also    N. 

vestiaator),    319,    324- 

326,   328 
Necrophorus         vestigator, 

324 
Neustrian  Bombyx,  21 


Oak  Bombyx,  Oak  Eggar 
(see  Banded  Monk) 

Oak  Processionary,  135, 
168,  173 

Orgyia,    i37-'39,   »4» 

Owl    (see  Brown  Owl) 


Palte  et  endue  (see  Orgyia) 

Phidias,  18 

Pieris  brassicee  (see  Cab- 
bage-caterpillar) 

Pig,  307 

Pine  Bombyx  (see  Pine 
Processionary) 

Pine  Processionary,  1-148, 
150,  157,  159,  161-170, 
173-176,  179,  181-182, 
184,  300 

Plato,  20,  56 

Pliny  the  Elder,   346-347 

Praying  Mantis,  43,  285- 
'286 

Processionary,  Procession- 
ary Caterpillar,  Pro- 
cessionary Moth  (see 
Oak  Processionary, 
Pine  Processionary) 

Psyche  (see  also  the  varie- 
ties below),  186-244 

Psyche  comitella,  194-202 
214-216 

Psyche  febretta,  192,  214 

Psyche  graminella  (see  P. 
unicolor) 

Psyche  inter mediella  (see 
P.  comitella) 

Psyche  unicolor,  186-191, 
204-216 

Puss-moth,   172 

Pythagoras,   19 


Rabbit.   212,  279,   310. 
Rabelais,  Frangois,  58 


Index 


Reaumur,      Rene      Antoine 
Ferchault  de,  9-10,  12- 

15,  26,  90,  95,   120-132, 


Rod 


135 
well, 


Miss  Frances, 


Spallanzani,  Lazaro,  301 
Spanish   Copris,   309 
Spider,   40 
Spurge  Hawk-moth,  172 


Saprinus      (see     also      the 
varieties   below),    320- 

3.25,   328 

Saprinus   teneus,   323 
Saprinus  detenus,   323 
Saprinus    maculatus,   323 
Saprinus         semipunctatus, 

3.23 

Saprinus    speculifer,    323 
Saprinus   subnitidus,   323 
Sapromyzon,    307-309 
Saw-fly     (see    also    Green 

Saw-fly),   sin 

Scatophaaa  scybalaria,  307 
Silk-moth  (see  Silkworm) 
Silkworm,  125,  170-172, 

175-176,   181-182,  264 
Silpha   (see  also  the  varie- 
ties below),  319,  324 
Silpha   obscura,  324 
Silpha  rugosa,  324 
Silpha  sinuata,  324 
Snail,  96 


Teixeira  de  Mattos,  Alex- 
ander, 5iw,  99«,  10771, 
303  n 

Termite,   53 

Tiger-moth,   172 

Toad,    320 

Tree-frog,  108 

Turkey,  303 


Vanessa  polychloris  (see 
Cireat  Tortoiseshell 
Butterfly) 

Vine   Ephippiger,   184 
Voltaire,     Francois     Marie 
Arouet  de,  17 

W 

Wasp,     5  in,     52,     147-148; 

162,  183 

White  Ant  (see  Termite) 
Wood-louse,   322 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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